Vladimir Orlov

Danilov the Violist

a novel

VLADIMIR ORLOV

Translated by Antonina W Bouis

Copyright © 1980 by 'Novy Mir', nos.2,3,4;

Text Copyright © 1978 Vladimir Orlov

English translation by Antonina W. Bouis © 1987 by William Morrow and Co., Inc.

ISBN 0-688-04655-X

1

Danilov was considered a friend of the Muravlyov family. And he was. And even now he is still a friend of the family. In Moscow these days every cultured family tries to have its own friend. No one but me knows he's a demon. And I learned that rather recently, even though, I suppose, I had noticed a few strange things about Danilov. But that's merely incidental.

Nowadays Danilov does not visit the Muravlyovs very often. But before, every Sunday, if he didn't have a matinee, Danilov dined with them. He came with his instrument -- he had his reasons for that. Let me close my eyes and recall one of those Sundays.

... At the Muravlyov apartment there is great bustling from early morning, there are delicious smells, finely chopped lamb bought at the market awaits its hour in a pot, baby string beans tumble from their glass jars into oiled frying pans, and the coffee maker materializes on the French oilcloth of the kitchen table. Ah, what aromas fill the apartment! What aromas are yet to come! On such a day the Muravlyovs need no other guests. Especially Kudasov and his wife. But it's Kudasov who comes most often.

Kudasov has a nose for dinners, drinking sprees, and tea parties. He merely has to twitch a nostril, and he knows which of his acquaintances has bought which foods and at what time they'll be setting them out on the table. Even before they get the tablecloth out of the linen closet, Kudasov is in a streetcar following the scent. Sometimes he doesn't even twitch his nostril, but a prophetic voice in his soul or his stomach speaks. It calls him softly, like Giselle's melancholy ghost. Kudasov can even tell if the food will be meager and tasteless, without pepper, without pastilles for the tea, or without a ham from Eliseyev's, in which case he doesn't come. But he has no doubts about dinners for Danilov; everything will be first-class. He worries only about being late and letting the food get cold. Here Kudasov doesn't trust his nose or the prophetic voice, for they might be malfunctioning. In the morning he checks the theater poster and figures out whether Danilov is performing or not. He knows Danilov's entire repertoire. Just to be sure, he calls the theater, too: "Has the performance been canceled?" Kudasov knows that the Muravlyovs will be entertaining Danilov if there's a cancellation.

Kudasov isn't a poor man. He's a lecturer. But he longs to eat at others' expense. And he gets so tired of words at his work that he becomes totally harmless at the table -- he doesn't say anything, just chews and swallows, only occasionally stopping to clarify something, so that someone's wild thought doesn't run off too far or try to slip around the corner. His wife is silent, too, but she has an unpleasant way of smacking her lips.

Neither Danilov nor the Muravlyovs especially need Kudasov, but they do put up with him. After all, he is an old acquaintance, and after all, Kudasov's brazenness knows no hindrance from any obstacle, any trap, any diplomatic ruse, or even an armored tank. He'll come anyway, apologize, and sit down at the table. Like a trained lion on a stool. And he'll always hand his hosts a bottle of cheap dry wine -- and then how could you possibly show him the door? The only consolation is that he'll eat three servings of the meat course and then immediately nod off at the table, while Danilov and the Muravlyovs quietly enjoy the meal.

"The lobio* is excellent today!" Danilov exclaims.

"Have some of this salad," Muravlyov urges. "It's got nuts, and cheese, and mayonnaise dressing."

"Sauce Provencale," Danilov corrects him, and as he sets aside the yellow dish, he praises the hostess as ostentatiously and sincerely as usual.

The hostess is right there, flushed with her exertions, ready to head for the kitchen to fetch yet another dish for her guest.

And here, in an enormous bowl, comes Uzbek plov, steaming, seemingly alive, each grain of rice separate, with just the right amount of meat and fat; its dotted here and there with black barberries brought from Tashkent, and redolent cloves of garlic, peeping out from the saffron mounds of rice. The aroma! It's so wonderful that even in the villages near Samarkand, connoisseurs are turning their faces toward Moscow.

Kudasov, naturally, regains consciousness and receives a bowlful of plov with an extra helping. Now he can go to sleep for good or off to someone else's house, and not bother to wait for the coffee.

"There now," Muravlyov says to Danilov, "and you tortured yourself and us for two years with your vegetarianism!"

"I did torture you," Danilov agrees. And adds sadly: "But I still feel sorry for them... And for that lamb... And for his mother who is now all alone..."

"Nonsense ... Metaphysics ..." Kudasov wakes up. "You skip all the evening political seminars, I'll bet."

"Let's not have any of that, Valerii Stepanovich." Tamara, Muravlyov's wife, rises as if to defend Danilov with her breast, if necessary. "On the contrary, Volodya attends all the seminars!"

"And the mother of this plov ," adds Kudasov, "has long ago been turned into sausage. So there's nothing to feel sorry about."

"Don't be like that," Danilov says gently.

But now it's time for the tea and coffee -- and all melancholy evaporates. Danilov himself performs the ritual at the Muravlyov house. He brews green and Russian tea, and coffee beans exclusively from the sun-baked Arabian soil (Danilov scorns Brazilian beans, which he finds too insipid and acidic). Every tea, according to Danilov, must achieve its proper shade of color and that goes without saying for coffee, too. Danilov, as he stands in the kitchen over the gas range, is Doctor Faustus in Gounod's blue-black opera (which he played on Wednesday -- Blinnikov sang Faust and in the intermission after the second act paid a bottle of cognac to Danilov over a hockey bet.) And now he silently brings in the teapots and coffee makers on lacquer trays.

"How is it?" Danilov asks anxiously.

"Marvelous!" says Muravlyov. "As usual!"

Then Danilov sits with his hosts in the twilight. He stretches out his long thin legs, with his feet in Muravlyov's worn slippers; and blissfully drowsy, he listens to Okudzhava's record, which he bought in Paris on the Boulevard Saint-Michel for twenty-seven francs. Or he listens to nothing, and hums Buba Kastorskys's lines from "The Elusive Avengers" -- he holds the tune in low esteem, but he can't get it out of his head. And, without responding to Muravlyov's remark on construction in the quay district, he falls asleep in the armchair. He gets very tired: He performs both with the theater orchestra and in concerts, for he has enormous expenses with his instrument and two co-op apartments. The hostess comes over to him, fixes the suspender that had slipped from his skinny shoulder, covers him with a camel's hair blanket, and gives him a soulful, maternal look. She sighs and leaves the dining room, and remembers to put out the light...

But I repeat: That's how it used to be. Now Danilov seldom dines at the Muravlyovs'. Once a month. No more ...

2

Danilov doesn't attend the meetings of the house spirits anymore, either. But previously, after performances, Danilov would sometimes come to the house with the turret on Argunovskaya Street. The Ostankino-area house spirits met there in the building super's office. Danilov himself wasn't a house spirit, but he was assigned to them.

He liked some of the house spirits. House spirit Velizarii Arkadyevich, a funny old man from a moderne-style town house, thought that he was pure lofty spirituality, and had a soft spot for Danilov. Such as a lonely pensioner living in the sticks might have for a brilliant nephew in the capital. When Velizarii Arkadyevich was depressed, he would quietly ask Danilov to hum him a few arias from Tchaikovsky's Iolanthe. And Danilov, a kind soul, did not refuse. With house spirit Fedot Sergeyevich, who came from some ruined chambers of the seventeenth century, Danilov often argued about architecture. Fedot Sergeyevich grew angry when Danilov defended Gropius and Saarinen: "Oh, don't bother with them -- they're boring and awful, all their beams and lines aren't worth one of our bast-box arches" -- but then it turned out that the debaters held similar views. Artem Lukich, the most conscientious in the house on Argunovskaya and a recognized authority, did regard Danilov as an outsider but treated him with respect.

One time, Georgii Nikolayevich, from house twenty-five, drunkenly tried to pick a fight with Danilov. "I'll show them!" he hollered. "All sorts try to get in everywhere! ... With beards yet!" But Georgii Nikolayevich was immediately forced to recall that he was merely a house spirit while Danilov wasn't -- he was only assigned to them.

Georgii Nikolayevich in general was despicable. Danilov was touring in Tashkent when house spirit Ivan Afanasyevich was transformed into something transparent and green, flew up with a crystal tinkle into the Ostankino sky, and was carried off to the place from which there is no return. When Danilov heard about the incident, he was upset. He had liked Ivan Afanasyevich. Danilov also knew Ekaterina Ivanovna: He had met her at the Muravlyovs' and had danced both jive and the kazachok* with her more than once. It hadn't even occurred to him that Ivan Afanasyevich lusted after her.

Ivan Afanasyevich did not have the right to love a human woman. That's why he ceased to exist. But none of this would have happened had it not been for Georgii Nikolayevich. He played a vile part in Ivan Afanasyevich's fate. Afterwards, Georgii Nikolayevich should not have dared show his face, but rather stayed somewhere in his house -- in the telephone receiver between the coil and diaphragm, or crinkled up in the form of a dry leaf for the winter in a third-grader's herbarium. But instead he behaved like a hero. As if to say, I did what I did, and they'll thank me for it yet, and your lousy job is to respect me and drink whiskey with me. And they drank whiskey with him. In silence, but they drank. "Bastard!" they thought. "If it were up to us, we'd ..." -- but they drank, supposing that in actuality Georgii Nikolayevich would be thanked. Or perhaps already had been. It grew quiet on Argunovskaya. A some sort of nervous chill had descended as if a sad hanged man had begun visiting them.

Then Danilov returned from his Tashkent tour. He hadn't been with the house spirits for a long time and decided to drop in. They told Danilov about Ivan Afanasyevich's disappearance and about Georgii Nikolayevich's baseness. The next day Danilov showed up at a meeting straight from a performance of Corsaire. He still wore his pressed tuxedo and bow tie and carried his black instrument case. He was always handsome, but now he looked just like the young Bilibin in Kustodiev's portrait. Almost solemnly, he greeted everyone with his shy smile but when Georgii Nikolayevich offered him his hand, Danilov pulled his own away. Everyone froze.

"Snub me, do you?" challenged Georgii Nikolayevich.

"I," said Danilov, "am merely observing proper hygiene."

"What am I, contagious?"

"Yes," said Danilov. "You have influenza. What's the matter, don't you feel it? Besides which, you survived the cholera of 1844. And its bacteria, as everyone knows, can survive decades -- even in ice. Well, forget the cholera. But the flu this year has serious complications."

And then Danilov opened his little case, took out a new gauze mask, and slowly, silently tied the silk straps behind his head. The starched gauze covered his nose, mouth, and beard, but he was still handsome. The house spirits rushed over to Danilov, and he handed each a face mask.

"What about me?" Georgii Nikolayevich asked piteously.

"You don't need one," Danilov said.

Georgii Nikolayevich sank into a chair and wept.

"What are you crying for?" Danilov said. "You should see a doctor."

"I lost a friend ... he dissolved up there." Georgii Nikolayevich pointed upward. "I feel sad and you're making fun of me..."

"Excuse me, which friend is this?"

"Vanya... Ivan Afanasyevich ... We spent our youth on Tretya Meshchanskaya Street, behind the church of Metropolitan Filipp... We used to play hide-and-seek... Toward the end he was living incorrectly... I told him the truth to his face ... and still he was my friend. And you're making fun of me... You ought to be ashamed of yourselves..."

"Enough of that, Georgii Nikolayevich," Danilov said. "You weren't a friend of Ivan Afanasyevich. The reason he no longer exists is that you are incapable of being anyone's friend."

Here Georgii Nikolayevich leapt up with angry eyes, now dry, and rushed toward Danilov. He grabbed his satin lapels with his huge hands, and tugged so hard that even though the material was from a good tailor, it cracked and broke in places.

"You gave yourself away! Yes, you did!" shouted Georgii Nikolayevich. "You're pulling this whole stunt because of him, that weakling! You can't do a thing to me! I'm a proper house spirit! And I'll twist you into a pretzel for today's little affair!"

"Take your hands off me," said Danilov, and instantly Georgii Nikolayevich flew toward the opposite wall, where he overturned the bridge table.

"I'll find a way to put you in your place!" Georgii Nikolayevich kept shouting. "If you are coming to us minor creatures, that means you've been demoted from the demons! You're being punished, and I know what for!"

Danilov wasn't usually prone to petty revenge, but this time he was so upset he couldn't control himself. Right there and then, by the wall, Georgii Nikolayevich got the Australian flu. He began sneezing, his temperature skyrocketed, his blood and other vital fluids began fermenting, gaseous substances precipitated in him as light blue crystals, and his nose started running.

Georgii Nikolayevich barely found the strength to leave. He turned at the doorstep, and whispered:

"You'll pay for this dearly..."

Danilov quietly untied his face mask, folded it neatly and triumphantly, as if he were a Japanese officer folding the flag in the presence of the emperor, and put it away in his case. All the house spirits took off their masks, too. Only Velizarii Arkadyevich blushed and asked if he could wear his mask for another week.

And it wasn't just that everyone cheered up, it was as if they had thrown off the ropes from their swollen wrists. Danilov was saddened by the fact that he had gotten excited and lost his self-control -- that was bad enough in itself. But, the worst part was that even his slightest gesture could bring disaster to innocent creatures, and Danilov was powerless to stop it. It had happened before. Not too long ago the Muravlyovs went off on a holiday to Planerskaya to stay in a vacation house. Actually, Muravlyov didn't like Planerskaya, he berated his wife for luring him out of town with hard-to-get travel packages, scorned the local cuisine, and one night as the mattress spring jabbed his left side, he muttered half-asleep: "I hope this place burns to the ground!" Danilov was far away, but as a free son of the ether, he received every sound and spiritual wave. Muravlyov's words reached him instantly as a friend's plea to be released from undeserved torment. Danilov didn't have time to think, but his compassion alone was enough to ignite the cottage in Planerskaya.

Horror-stricken, Muravlyov rescued a bottle of Extra Vodka that he was saving for the next day, while his son, Misha, shivered and clutched the house's skis to his chest, and his wife, Tamara, courageously tossed the family's clothes into suitcases. The evacuated family spent the entire night in the snow. Now Muravlyov berated not only his wife, but also the drunken electricians who had worked in the cottage attic during the day. Danilov suffered, but he could not restore the cottage.

He expected no good to come from this, either. And sure enough, the Australian virus that appeared in Georgii Nikolayevich was so strong that the entire populace of building number twenty-five caught it the next day. Danilov was distraught again but did not know what to do. After the fire in Planerskaya he was too embarrassed to visit the Muravlyovs, even though they did not suspect him of anything. They kept inviting him, but he refused, inventing excuses. He thought: "Enough! This is the last time! Don't I have any self-control at all? Couldn't I have put Georgii Nikolayevich in his place without all that sneezing and coughing?" He even gave Georgii Nikolayevich precious pills that could interfere with the Australian virus. And that was against the rules. But even when the flu abated, Danilov was still upset.

Then a new house spirit appeared at one of the meetings on Argunovskaya. He had been sent to house twenty-one to fill the vacancy left by Ivan Afanasyevich.

3

His name was Valentin Sergeyevich. He wore a pince-nez on a platinum chain, and when he was amazed by something someone said -- for instance, that the fish Protoperus could get out of its tank and finish off a medium-size cat -- he would toss back his head and say in a piercing tone: "Tse! Tse! Tse! Tse!" These sounds did convey amazement, and also something frightening, or at the very least, menacing. The lazy house spirits from the huge block buildings, who had received the bulk of their education from television, at first nicknamed him Menshevik because of his pince-nez, but then for some reason they began to hold their tongues. The old-timers told Valentin Sergeyevich that it was proper to attend meetings in the club caftan and not in an unfashionable jacket. But Valentin Sergeyevich seemed not to hear, and talk about his jacket died down.

Valentin Sergeyevich was fidgety. He ran with tiny hops from one group to another. Playing cards or chess, he squirmed all the while and confused his opponent with his aggressive "Tse! Tse! Tse! Tse!" In general sitting down across a table or chess board from him was a bad deal, because he always won. The Ostankino old-timers did not know the story of Valentin Sergeyevich's life: The only thing they learned from his personnel file was that he had worked previously somewhere near Kolkhoz Square. That's where Bryus's house was. Peter the Great's Field Marshal Yakov Vladimirovich Bryus, as we know, was interested in the black arts and alchemy -- even in the July heat his guests could ice skate. The smells and fluids from Bryus's stoppers and dishes had the potential to stink up the neighborhood for centuries. What if Valentin Sergeyevich had his eccentricities, too? Maybe his pince-nez chain was made by alchemy. The wise heads of Argunovskaya Street gave this some thought. There was a reason, they decided, that Valentin Sergeyevich had appeared among their peaceful company.

Danilov had once again not attended a meeting of the house spirits in a long time. He had his hands full with human concerns. But one night he dropped in and immediately sensed that there was some sort of bond between him and Valentin Sergeyevich. "He has something for me," Danilov said to himself. He did not approach Valentin Sergeyevich, but waited for the other to reveal himself. However, Valentin Sergeyevich apparently was the patient and willful type, or perhaps was not responsible for his own behavior. He fidgeted and capered not far from Danilov but seemingly did not dare approach him -- as if he were a titular councillor and Danilov a general's daughter. However, Danilov occasionally noted in Valentin Sergeyevich's glance both self-confidence and perhaps a sense of superiority. "A fine specimen!" thought Danilov. Obviously it was not in vain that he had shown Georgii Nikolayevich the door. Now Danilov was angry -- not exactly recklessly angry, but more with the soul-stirring expectation of adventure.

At last Valentin Sergeyevich came over to him and proposed a game of chess.

"For some reason they're all afraid to play me here," he said, apparently with embarrassment.

Danilov sat down with him and soon realized that Valentin Sergeyevich was a strong player. Danilov even began to wonder whether he should play against Valentin Sergeyevich on the level of house spirit or move up a rung.

But he decided after all to play with the power of a house spirit. In ten moves or so, though, Danilov saw that Valentin Sergeyevich was playing in a higher league. His pince-nez radiated an amazing greenish light that began to put thoughts into Danilov's head. "Ah, so that's how it is," he thought. "You ought to be playing against Fischer like this... But I'll turn on a counter system against your light tricks..." He turned it on and moved his white bishop forward.

There was an electric crackle. Valentin Sergeyevich bounced up in his chair and slammed his palms against the edge of the table. Danilov saw that he would checkmate the hawk of the Ostankino chess table on the thirty-sixth move.

"The custom here is to play on the level of house spirits," Danilov said. "Your violation of the rules could be misinterpreted."

"You ... you!" Valentin Sergeyevich spoke nervously. "All you can do is play chess and the viola. And only because you bought a good Albani instrument for three thousand. If you had a poor instrument they'd throw you out of the orchestra! ... And you want to play the viola d'amore, and you can't!"

"What do you know about the viola d'amore!" Danilov said. "You cannot speak about that which you don't know and about which you dare not speak."

"But I do!" screeched Valentin Sergeyevich.

He turned around at this point, but the house spirits had long ago huddled into the corners of the unpleasant room, as if to show they had no interest whatsoever in the conversation between Danilov and Valentin Sergeyevich.

"You're nervous," Danilov said. "Keep it up and you'll be checkmated sooner than your game deserves."

Danilov was angry himself. "The scoundrel!" But he appeared calm.

"So, you sympathize with Georgii Nikolayevich," Danilov said, taking a white pawn.

"You guessed wrong, Vladimir Alekseyevich!" said Valentin Sergeyevich with a laugh. "You are known to be frivolous, but you could have understood this... What do you and I care for Georgii Nikolayevich? He's a correct house spirit. But small potatoes, nothing! He's sick, fine, let him be sick. My interest in you is for a different reason! If it can be called an interest."

"What are you so excited about?"

"I'd heard about you a long time ago. You annoy me. Bother me. You're not high-ranking, you're even illegitimately born. And yet you permit yourself such ... I heard about you and practically wept. I thought, is there any justice?"

"And, is there?"

"There is, Vladimir Alekseyevich, there is! Here it is!"

And Valentin Sergeyevich brought his hand up to Danilov's face and spread his fingers. On his hand appeared a rectangle of shiny paper, resembling a visiting card. It was a summons.

"Just like pirates," Danilov said. "Why don't you have a skull and crossbones on it?"

"He who laughs last..."

"Why, have you been sent to punish me?"

"No," said Valentin Sergeyevich quickly, as if he were afraid. "I'm a courier."

"Then know your place," Danilov said.

"How arrogant you are!" screeched Valentin Sergeyevich once more. "I may be a minor figure, but I am performing official duties, and this is not the time for you to be insolent! You don't seem to understand -- you have been given Time X."

In crimson symbols the announcement of Time X appeared on the shiny rectangle. Danilov, despite trying to keep up a brave front, felt a chill. "It's probably not today or tomorrow, or even next month!" he said to console himself. But he no longer had his former insouciance.

"Your move," Valentin Sergeyevich said.

"Yes!" Danilov came back to the game.

Danilov looked at the board and saw that a rook he had taken a long time ago -- seven moves before -- had reappeared. He looked at the record of moves and discovered a notation made in his own hand, but which had no basis in reality, that also showed the white rook on the board. Danilov forgot about the summons. He was not about to take chicanery like that! He was ready to turn this trickster, emboldened by his job, to ashes! But then Danilov recalled the fire in Planerskaya and the flu epidemic and thought that perhaps Valentin Sergeyevich was purposely provoking him to make a scene. So he exercised his willpower. Otherwise Argunovskaya Street might have been turned into a long stretch of black, empty lots with charred stumps. A sneaky thought occurred to Danilov: "Why don't I let him have the bishop, too, just like that," he decided, "and then we'll see ..." Valentin Sergeyevich greedily grabbed the set-up bishop, like a streetcar fare box sucks up a copper coin. But he hesitated, then gave Danilov a confused and pathetic look. His eyelashes began to flutter and color with phosphorescent tints.

"You're not in the least bit afraid of me, are you? You despise me? Why are you torturing me again?"

"What's he going on about?" thought Danilov. "I don't have any secret end-game tactic, I'm just giving up the bishop..."

"Don't beat me!" begged Valentin Sergeyevich. "Don't destroy me, sir! I won't be able to go back then! I'll get on my knees to you! Take pity on a poor orphan!"

Danilov felt sorry for Valentin Sergeyevich. He said: "Well, all right. I accept your proposal for a draw."

"Father mine! Benefactor!" Valentin Sergeyevich rushed over to kiss his hand, but Danilov grimaced fastidiously and stepped back.

Valentin Sergeyevich straightened up, flew into the center of the room, laughed in a terrifying concert-hall bass, aimed his platinum digit at Danilov's thin chest, and boomed so horribly that the sound broke the beer mugs in the neighborhood tavern on Korolev Street.

"Await your hour!"

He turned into something smoky and fiery that penetrated the wall with a crackle, and disappeared.

The house spirits rubbed their eyes for a while afterward, because as Valentin Sergeyevich's nature underwent the transformation from one physical state to another, it apparently had emitted tear gas.

"What appalling taste!" thought Danilov, looking at the singed wallpaper. "And why was he so terrified of the sacrificed bishop? ... Strange ... And yet his bass voice seemed familiar ..." He felt the shiny rectangle of the summons in his hand. The crimson marks were visible again. "Bad business, this," said Danilov with a sigh. In fact, it would have been hard to think of any worse...

4

Danilov gained altitude, undid his belt, and lit up a cigarette.

He smoked on rare occasions.

Below, obeying the rotation of the Earth, floated Ostankino, with its gray tower, which resembled a barbecue spit holding three pieces of shashlyk. Growing thinner with the effort, the tower stretched toward Danilov.

Danilov lay in the hammock of the air currents, his feet crossed and his arms behind his head. He did not want to think about anything at all now, but simply smoked with his eyes shut and waited for a heavy snow cloud to reach him from the northwest, from the leaden skies of Lapland.

It was warm in Moscow, boys were menacing their female classmates with sticky snowballs; the tramway wheels splashed murky water from steel gutters; cries of protest followed in the wake of obnoxious taxis that splattered people with mud. However, according to the calculations of the Temirtau weather station in Gornaya Shoriya, the warm air masses would soon collide with a cold one right over Moscow. They could not rule out the possibility of a winter thunderstorm. Danilov loved Ostankino so much because from time immemorial it had been the most storm-tossed part of Moscow, and even now it had a tower that held a special attraction for lightning. Danilov knew that today there would be an elemental fury over Ostankino. He almost pulled the Lapland cloud over to him in his impatience.

And then Danilov felt a kind of signal. It was weak, limp somehow. It carried neither a request nor a summons from unearthly powers. However, Danilov grew agitated. He looked down and determined that the signal was coming from a thirty-six-year-old man in a nutria hat. He was standing at the entrance to Ostankino Park near the doughnut stand. Danilov couldn't see the man well so he used his imagination to examine him and peer into his soul. It turned out that this man, who had just had a glass of coffee and a hot, crumbling doughnut, had come by streetcar from the hospital and was about to transfer to another streetcar. He had received an urgent call to the hospital that morning -- his father was on the brink of death. The only thing that might save him was an operation, and only if it were done immediately, and not an hour later. Semidelirious, the patient had refused the operation, and so the son signed the consent form. He felt that he was signing his father's death warrant.

He sat and waited for three hours. The operation was a success, but his father's condition was still critical. The man hadn't felt well before, but now that the tension was over, he had nervous chills and felt nauseated. He thought: "If I could only have a shot of vodka now!" Danilov sympathized.

Danilov looked at the cloud again and shook his head. It was barely crawling. He sighed and descended to the slippery asphalt. He didn't approach the man in the nutria hat right away. Danilov was always rather nervous about meeting new people. This man seemed intelligent and quiet, a geography teacher by profession, but it wasn't clear how he might react to Danilov's appearance.

"It's cold," Danilov said, smiling shyly.

"Yes, chilly," the man said with a nod.

Silence.

"Doesn't it seem to you," Danilov said, "that those new buildings on Argunovskaya are totally out of place both with the tower and certainly with the Sheremetyev Palace?"

The man looked at Danilov with surprise, looked at the houses, and said: "These aren't the worst buildings..."

"I'm not so sure," Danilov said and, after another silence, he started speaking quickly, stammering from embarrassment: "Please forgive me, I have a rather sordid request, you can tell me to go wherever you want, but at least hear me out...' I'm feeling very depressed... I need a drink ... and I can't drink alone. Would you keep me company?"

"What do you mean?" the man said with confusion.

"I have everything right here," Danilov said. And he took an already opened bottle of vodka and a glass from his coat pocket. "If you don't want to drink, at least stand with me..."

"Well, why not..." the man said uncertainly. "If you just want me to stand with you ..."

"Thanks a lot!" Danilov said cheerfully.

They went behind the brown fence of the former market and stood near the garbage pit. Danilov would have preferred a bottle of burgundy, or cognac, or the cunning green Chartreuse from the monastery cellars of Grenoble: He didn't want to drink vodka, especially so near a garbage pit, but what could he do! He drank his portion, refilled the glass, threw away the bottle, and offered the glass to the man.

"Please, take this... I can't drink any more ... but I hate it to go to waste!"

"No, no, no! I couldn't!" the man began, but he took the glass and knocked back the vodka.

Danilov offered him an apple to chase the vodka. Noticing how the man's eyes followed the glass, he said: "You didn't want more than a glass, did you?"

"What?" The man seemed startled and stared with fright at Danilov.

"No, no, I didn't mean anything," Danilov said quickly.

Here Danilov sensed that it was the perfect time for them to part. The man might be about to fall into a confessional mood. There wouldn't have been anything wrong with that, except that tomorrow the man would repent and rebuke himself for revealing his soul to the first stranger he met, after drinking vodka with him -- at least he didn't show him his papers and give him his telephone number. Danilov firmly excused himself and said he was late. He walked quickly in the direction of the park, went around the empty market building and flew up once more into the Ostankino sky. He relaxed his entire body, and lay back on the air currents to wait for the cloud.

Now he was calmer and even began whistling a tune from Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier. The cloud was already over Klin and Tchaikovsky's little house, and in another hour it would reach the gates of Moscow. Danilov couldn't wait any more. He didn't like enforced indolence, and the sweetness of the coming delights beckoned. He jumped up and flew out of the warm currents to meet the cloud. Above the Krukovo Railroad Station he pierced the dark, damp mass and pushing aside the fogs of its lower level, he rose to the cloud's very apex, to the glistening icy crystals. He stretched out and began turning into ice crystals himself, taking on their positive charge. Now he felt fine, he wasn't rushing the cloud, but he stubbornly crowded the warm front. The main event would occur in the sky over Ostankino.

Some twenty minutes later they were over Ostankino. And it began! Everything in the cloud took on motion, trembled, agitated, bubbled, a wild power suddenly aware it was capable of exploding. Somewhere below, cold air collided with warm, and finally the motion reached the cloud's ice cover and Danilov. He plunged down with the other ice crystals so as to turn into water vapor below. He plunged without looking back, desperately, shedding ions as he fell and taking on a negative charge. "This is marvelous!" thought Danilov as he felt the penetrating freshness of the new charge. "Marvelous!" But he knew this was only the beginning.

The free electrons were pouring from the cloud at a speed of one hundred fifty kilometers per second down to Earth. They punched a canal in the air for the lightning and for Danilov and, howling and thundering with pleasure, Danilov rushed toward Earth on the very tip of the lightning bolt. With blue sparks he crashed into the steel needle of the lightning rod of the Ostankino Palace. But he didn't go into the ground, he didn't neutralize or disappear; instead, pushing away from the rod as if repelled by it, he rose into the sky with an artillery roar, so wildly that he might have ended up anywhere if he hadn't checked himself and tumbled back into the cloud. And then over and over he fell to Earth with the lightning. Somersaulting and splashing sparks, he twice hit the steel rod, and the third time he got so carried away that he missed and splintered an old oak in the park near the sledding hill. That brought him to his senses. "Enough!" Danilov told himself. "That's it. You have to stop." And he hopped back up into the sky. He left behind a thoroughly chilled Moscow -- which, incidentally, was exactly what the Temirtau meteorological forecast had predicted.

Danilov was traveling at a good speed already, and he felt intoxicated. He needed to catch his breath. To tell the truth, Danilov had no need of a storm as a means of locomotion. He could fly wherever he wanted anyway. But he had grown accustomed to bathing in lightning. And not in ball or ribbon lightning, but in linear bolts. With rolling thunder. He scolded himself sometimes, with accusations of unforgivable vulgarity, but he could not, and would not, deny himself this longstanding weakness. Which was the case, incidentally, with many other of his weaknesses. But whereas the youthful Danilov had created thunderstorms for himself and, in the bliss of their rough and tumble, had felt himself to be Bonaparte commanding a battle of the elements, the present-day Danilov could not permit himself to be the cause of accidents and damage. Now he waited for natural storms, and in them he was no longer Bonaparte but ice crystals and water vapors.

After a rest, Danilov pointed a finger. And where he pointed, he flew -- this time to a tranquil spot in the Andes.

But as he flew he felt a crystalline itch throughout his whole body: Something was interfering with his hearing, and he wanted to sneeze. Danilov stopped, dug some repulsive gray matter from his ears, turned on his systems vacuums and cleaners, and shook out sand, finely ground glass, and captain's pipe tobacco from himself. Someone deliberately and meanly had stuffed glass and tobacco into the cloud, and Danilov hadn't noticed it while diving. Could it be the work of Valentin Sergeyevich? But that would mean that Valentin Sergeyevich had access to the atmosphere. "So let him!" thought Danilov. But he realized that the idea made him unhappy.

"Can even creatures like that have access now? ... Who is he, anyway?" And he flew on.

He had the right to fly with the speed of thought. Here he was in Moscow, he thinks he has to be in Upper Udalia, and right away he's in Upper Udalia. But Danilov found that kind of flying boring, and he moved with such speed only when he was absentminded or drunk. Usually he lagged behind thoughts. Rather, he interrupted the main thought with random thoughts, sometimes even silly ones, which, however, gave him pleasure. In a single flash he could also see and understand everything that lay in his path -- every human fate, every incident, every bug and every dust mote. But this was, in Danilov's opinion, like running through the halls of the Hermitage Museum in a half hour. He wouldn't be able to take anything to heart that way. Not a single nerve in his body would respond. All he would get for it would be a headache. That's why he did not look at everything en route, but only at what he wanted to, and then he'd really find out about it. For instance, he might set off to Japan to see his girlfriend Himeko on the island of Honshu, but suddenly he would hear the chime of some peculiar bells, and turn willy-nilly, to instantly find himself flying over a herd of sheep in the Tyrolean Mountains, where he would touch the bells with his finger as he passed. Or he would recall that he wanted to know whether Simenon had really stopped writing as he had heard on the radio, and without losing sight of the desirable Himeko, he would look into Simenon's Lausanne house, since it was nearby. Then he might be attracted by the aroma of roasting lamb in Rawalpindi or the cry of a child in a Manila suburb, and Danilov would quietly give the child a candy and wipe away his tears, then fly off to Himeko...

Today Danilov was flying strictly on course, not hurrying. Europe was below him. Ahead to the right Paris glittered, windows were lit in apartments known to Danilov in Paris proper and nearby in the gallant city of Sceaux. And a bit farther and to the left Danilov made out the grim casket Escorial; many times he had meant to peek into its halls and cellars to sweep out Philip II's black thoughts with a boxtree broom. But somehow he never got over there. And today he said to himself: "Next time for sure," and then recalled that there might not be a next time.

He flew, his arms pressed to his sides and his legs extended, but without any particular muscle tension. He had no wings, naturally. And who would dare wear a pair nowadays! The fashion for wings was passe, even for the heavy aluminum ones from jet planes, which had created such a sensation a mere fifteen years ago.

Danilov wasn't one of those people who would appear in public wearing felt boots, even if it were freezing. He was a sharp dresser. When it had been the custom to fly with rudder and sails, he flew with rudder and sails, but what sails he flew! Then there was a fad for wings, and Danilov was one of the first to have wings made. Many came to gawk at the Damascus steel frame, covered with rubberized material, which was layered on top with peacock feathers and black velvet below, and with veins of seed pearls embroidered on the velvet. Those wings were extraordinary, and now they lay in some storeroom. Danilov did not throw them away completely, because he found old things touching. Then diesel engines were fashionable, and bulb horns that made scandalous noises, motorcycle goggles, bent windshields, exhaust pipes with anodized mermaids, and other things -- who can remember them all? Then someone put on aluminum flats -- and that created a sensation ... it was madness! Many of Danilov's acquaintances picked up the most amazing wings -- from Boeings and from antediluvian Farmans, four each, and even from Concordes, which were then nonexistent. "Pfui!" said Danilov. He was flashy, sometimes too daring, but he not no desire to adopt every fashion that made it to the backwoods. After all, fashion is born in Paris or maybe Moscow, but it grows old in Fetezh and Maklakov. And by the time it reaches far-off Maklakov, it turns a dozen cartwheels and can't recognize itself any longer, when the Maklakov teenagers start wearing yard-wide bell bottoms with jingle bells and battery-powered light bulbs by their shoes. No, Danilov didn't bother with that, he got a pair of IL-18 wings and was satisfied. And now, when his acquaintances were all into space equipment, Danilov didn't run out to get a spacesuit or space capsule. He must be getting old, or just tired of innovation. And neither he nor his friends needed wings, or engines, or spacesuits, it was all just for fun! Colored beads for the natives!

But the Andes were long overdue. Danilov saw his secret spot and began to descend. It was a quiet place, in the mountains, by the sea, but the locals didn't like it for some reason. Right beneath him stretched a landing strip of some five kilometers in length, and around it on the deserted rocky plateau, in the mossy brush, could be seen depictions of strange birds and beasts. Danilov landed and went to his cave. The landing strip was still usable, no worse than some concrete ones, the rock had not yet crumbled. Danilov had set it up during the period of his interest in aluminum wings. Even with the wings he hadn't needed it to land, he was just showing off. He had dragged in the rocks, piling them on top of one another, and then smoothing them out; and -- he was ashamed to recall it now -- he landed on the strip like a plane with a roar and wind, and lowering landing gear from his armpits. He had also decorated the plateau all around with wild pictures of figures and faces, and added ornamental paths -- Danilov had been interested in Indian primitive art back then, too. A little later scientists appeared on the plateau and noisily discovered the supposed Inca art work. Other scientists did not agree and insisted that the strip and the art were the work of aliens from outer space. Danilov read these reports with amusement. However, adherents of the aliens theory were ground to dust by a perceptive professor, who, for his efforts, was eternally cursed by all children, including Misha Muravlyov.

Danilov approached the cave, to which the entrance was blocked. He pushed aside the forty-ton granite block with his shoulder. Inside it was dark, damp, and smelled of bat droppings. Danilov chased away the bats with a stick, dusted the stone ledge, spread a jaguar skin on it, and lay down.

He had to make a decision, the necessity of which tormented him. Oh, if he could just put it off, to some vague, future time and forget it all... But he couldn't. Danilov took out the shiny rectangle that was his summons, and the crimson sign appeared on it immediately, gloomily illuminating the cave as it reminded Danilov of Time X. He put the summons in his vest pocket, sighed, and shut his eyes. He felt sorry for himself. Why were they bugging him? There were individuals worse than he -- and they went on living, and no one bothered them...

If he could only understand what he had done to elicit Time X. And who made that appointment. "Ah, why bother guessing?" thought Danilov with a sense of doom. "Whether I figure it out or not, the outcome will be the same..."

He was nervous and sad. He regretted his incomplete life. But as he mourned himself, Danilov used a corner of his mind to imagine the list of crimes of which he would be accused. That in itself was interesting. But more importantly, if he knew the list, he could undertake some plan, think of something, and somehow wrap the judges and the executioners -- even if they were omnipotent -- around his little finger...

"I wonder which paragraphs of the agreement they'll bring up?" thought Danilov. There was a contract between him and the Chancery of The Order. The chief of the Chancery had signed in yellow incombustible ink, and in accordance with the law, Danilov had signed with blood from his vertical blue vein. There were a hundred and three paragraphs in the contract and no loopholes. Primarily they listed the duties and responsibilities of Danilov, hereinafter referred to as a demon on contract, but they did guarantee some of his rights. When the decision was made to sign an agreement, Danilov and many of his friends considered it a liberal and generous decision. Danilov's willfullness and merry pranks could have been punished quite seriously even back then, but everything was settled by the agreement instead.

It should be mentioned here that Danilov was a demon only on his father's side. On his mother's he had descended from humans, in particular, humans from the Upper Volga city of Danilov. Danilov was an infant when his mother died and his father was exiled permanently to Taurus for his sinful earthly love and a certain spirit of independence and individuality. On Taurus his job was blowing up gas storms. Danilov did not correspond with him and had never even met him. They were not allowed to learn the least bit about each other. Paragraph b of Article 17 required Danilov to fly past Taurus with his eyes shut and with cotton in his ears.

Danilov might have spent his whole life in a small town, where he would have grown turnips and onions in his garden, and ended up resting in peace like a good bourgeois under the poplars and birches of the Danilov Cemetery -- for in human terms he was born at the end of the eighteenth century. However, influential friends of his father took pity on the innocent infant and arranged a different fate for him. They brought Danilov in wet diapers from earth to the heavenly nurseries. And then they found him a spot in the lyceum of the Chancery of Knowledge. The lyceum had a technological bias. And Danilov moved along the golden path of a young demon, plucking flowers of pleasure along the way.

He led a distracted and brilliant life. But his position was dubious, and in all his papers he was listed as illegitimate. Some conservatives, insensitive to the rules of etiquette, would sniff the air when Danilov was around and whisper in irritation: "Fie! I smell the blood of a human!"

He was not trusted, and therefore he could not expect any great promotions.

And basically, Danilov himself was responsible for any such suspicions. As a graduate of the lyceum of the Chancery of Knowledge, he should have known everything, felt everything, seen everything, and, as a result, despised and hated everything human. But those were the ideal demands -- not all students graduated cum laude. Some blockheads and nitwits were handed diplomas with a dismissive shrug, the expense for their educations regretted -- not to mention the fact that they were so understaffed. Danilov was not considered a total waste, but as a scatterbrain who would never rise to the pinnacles of demonic science.

Actually, Danilov was a talented student and had quickly learned to know all, feel all, and see all in space, time, and the depths of souls: everything -- past, present, eternal, backward and forward, and all at the same instant! But this capability depressed and bored him, and he developed migraines. It seemed much more honest to Danilov not to use this capability, and instead to discover everything for himself, the way humans did -- with curiosity, perseverance, and skill. With the capability to be awed by every detail. Think how boring it would be to live, and know it all ahead of time!

So Danilov pretended to be a simpleton with limited means of perception. His knowledge consisted of what he learned himself, sometimes from the higher spheres, sometimes on the level taught at the high school in the town, Danilov. So as not to irritate anyone, Danilov wholeheartedly studied figure flying and music. He was sent to competitions and Olympic Games for unearthly talents. He was superior to many, won titles and prizes, and almost turned professional. While still at the lyceum, he was often called "our pride." In other words, Danilov didn't really have to worry about doing well in his studies.

It was harder for Danilov to deal with the idea that he was supposed to despise and hate everything. In theory he despised everything desperately. How he hated everything! But in practice, hating humanity gave Danilov pains in his stomach and somewhere near the gall bladder. However, Danilov did not seek relief from doctors, he wanted to overcome the problem himself. As he did his classwork he joined zealously in groups who prepared earthquakes, natural disasters, and bank robberies. He learned a few things, but the pains in his stomach got worse and he felt sick. The lab instructors were not satisfied with Danilov. He was pretty good at robbery, but he didn't spew out enough ash and rock from craters into the surrounding countryside. The teacher even threatened to send Danilov with other young demon dullards to do practical coursework of spoiling salads and main courses in the lunchrooms of the city of Saransk.

This upset Danilov and he tried harder. But he didn't get any better. And instead of hating humans, Danilov felt pity and even goodwill towards them. This was dangerous! If he kept it up, he would be disqualified and turned into a cherub! And what could be worse or more shameful? Besides, Danilov didn't like going around barefoot. But then he got lucky: He was sent to the Group for the Struggle for Women s Souls.

Even before that, Danilov had been drawn to beautiful women, and now, disguising his sympathetic feelings for them as scorn and hatred -- otherwise no scholarship! -- Danilov very quickly brought eighteen warm and passionate female souls into the school storehouse. And he left behind dozens of earthly beauties reaching out for him with desperate pleas. Even demons from the fast crowd -- who were diligent students, except for the fact that they copied horoscopes from Danilov -- envied him. "How do you get them?" they asked. "What could be easier?" Danilov replied casually. "Just give them golden dreams!" "On their silky lashes, you mean?" "Well, if you want to put it that way."

Danilov finished the lyceum and he got called in by the Chancery for Entrapping Souls and by the Directorate of Female Reveries. However, he was soon taken into the inner Chancery of Pleasures and entrusted with creating fireworks and attractions for departmental balls in the Seventh Level of Pleasures. The position was not an important one, but it was fine for Danilov. He worked, played the lute, and didn't care. Influential ladies looked upon him with favor, and there were moments when Danilov felt he was smiled upon by fortune. And suddenly -- bam! His life changed abruptly.

The Order remained the same, but something was expunged from its bowels. New brooms swept all the subsections, all the chanceries, all the Nine Layers (which is how Danilov now called that world). They reexamined documents and personnel files and they came across Danilov's green folder. "Ah-ha!" exploded in the commission. Ancient suspicions surfaced, flowed into the atmosphere, took on solidity, precipitated onto calf s skin, and were laid down in the form of a fat volume on the commission's desk. Danilov was subjected to analyses. It was recalled that his father had been a Voltarian. A decision was made, among many others: Danilov, as an inferior demon, was to be sent to Earth to live permanently among humans.

Danilov's Earth age was determined to be seven, and in 1943 (according to the human calendar) he was dropped into a Moscow orphanage. There one of the teachers quickly discovered that Danilov had a pretty good ear, and the gifted lad, skinny and shy, was accepted by the music boarding school. That was followed by the conservatory, then a radio orchestra, and then the theater orchestra. Since Danilov's crime was not his fault -- the guilt had been his father's -- Danilov was allowed to retain many demonic privileges and attributes. The only restriction was on flying to the Nine Layers -- he could do it only rarely and not for long periods. And only with special permission. He was still recognized in the Nine Layers and asked in whispers to tell the latest Earth jokes. But many regarded him already as an alien from the other side, a demon from The Other World. That's what they called Earth in all their documents and conversations -- The Other World, or sometimes That Other World. And now Danilov was under the auspices of the Chancery of the Other World.

At first they didn't expect much from him, but by the time Danilov was at the conservatory and then on the radio, he got all sorts of stupid instructions from the Chancery with greater frequency. The sluggish bureaucrats above were dissatisfied with Danilov. They pointed out that he was of little benefit to them, because he caused little harm to people. Danilov, against his better judgment, had to take up such minor acts of vileness as radio interference, divorces, and snow avalanches. But he limited the unpleasant consequences to people he considered bad. And he was called on the carpet for that, too. Then, in his annual report, Danilov blamed his faults on the fact that he did not receive hazardous-duty pay from the Chancery. The Chancery responded with a question about which hazard he had in mind: his own inner hazard, the hazard felt by humans in his presence, or the hazards of his environment? Danilov gave it some thought and said he meant all three. He demanded a triple portion of milk, which was the usual hazardous-duty supplement. He was told he was wrong but that the question would be looked into. For four years they corresponded about milk, and for four years Danilov did nothing. Finally the milk was refused him, because laboratory studies by a learned commission determined that Danilov had a low inner-hazard level. However, with reference to the hazards of the environment, they decided to send him unfiltered apple cider to help keep up his strength. Once again they expected action from Danilov, and once again they shouted at him. Then Danilov shot off a nervous epistle to the Chancery. He announced that he had been trained to deal with spiritual values and true knowledge and not to create storms and scenes, which could be better done anyway by petty, uneducated spirits. The Chief of the Chancery took Danilov's words as a personal rebuke and grew so furious he smashed the office furniture and threatened to burn up Danilov in the molten bowels of the Earth.

Now, this really scared Danilov. He lay low and waited for punishment. He did not want to appeal for help -- either to his acquaintances or his society ladies. But the unexpected occurred. He was offered the agreement.

Danilov didn't believe it. He thought that they were mocking him. But he was called into the Office of The Order and three copies were placed right into his anxious hands.

The wise theoreticians who examined Danilov's case came to the conclusion that all his deviations were caused by nothing other than his ambivalent position. In the past few years, the theoreticians said, Demon Danilov had been living and working in the dark. That is, Danilov had no idea who he was -- demon, human, some unknown creature, or the devil knew what. These last observations were not set down on paper, of course. Only humans tend to credit devils with great knowledge, while demons hold devils and their educational system -- in fact, all their systems -- in very low esteem. The theoreticians' conclusion was this: Sign a contract with Danilov to retain him at the level of demonhood, but consider him from then on as a demon on contract.

Of course, theoreticians are capable of recommending the greatest nonsense, and not all their suggestions are taken seriously. However, Danilov was lucky, and as he later learned, this is why: Yes, he was guilty of many violations, the authorities felt. But in Nine Layers he was known not as an evil transgressor but as a ne'er-do-well. And what kind of organization doesn't have its ne'er-do-wells? Further, Danilov was acknowledged as a sweet and charming ne'er-do-well, especially by the society ladies. He did violate rules, but he didn't make any statements denouncing the Nine Layers, he didn't criticize, he didn't sing arias, like his father, the Voltarian. Ne'er-do-wells, even wild ones, sometimes made model demons later on.

But no one told Danilov all this. He was scolded and humiliated, made to swear that he would give up his irresponsible ways. Danilov gladly swore. He tried to look responsible and reliable. They signed the agreement, and informed the Chancery of The Other World. Article 3 demanded that Danilov always know which state he was in -- human or demonic. At the warehouse Danilov signed for a silver bracelet with a "sky-Earth" system. Danilov never took off the bracelet, not even in the steam baths on Sandumy, and if in a dark alley some mugger, even one armed with a gun, wanted Danilov's bracelet, it's unlikely he would get it.

One of the links of the bracelets had an artistic engraving of the letter S, while the neighboring one had an E. As soon as Danilov used his finger or his will to move the S link a bit forward, he immediately changed to the demon state. A movement of the E link returned Danilov to the human condition. Danilov did not have the right to be demon and human simultaneously. There were many strict rules and limitations in the agreement. Danilov at first pretended he could not keep them all in his head, but they reminded him.

For a long time they tried to figure out which assignment to give Danilov. He was regarded as being incapable of handling important affairs. Danilov decided to outsmart the bureaucrats and find himself a job that wasn't too vile at the same time. He secretly began sending off Earth jokes, highly valued in The Nine Layers, to the Directorate of Mental Amusements. These jokes were passed on to the Chancery of Pleasures. Once he forgot to send his usual trunk of jokes to the Directorate and immediately got a severe reprimand. They even demanded an explanatory note. Danilov told them that the shipment was held up because Earth jokes had to be soaked patiently in a special solution to make them really good -- a discovery Danilov had made only recently. Soon after he received a warm letter from the Directorate; it praised Danilov and told him that his jokes were very popular -- in fact, they were the height of fashion! That made Danilov daring. He wrote back about the pathetic conditions under which he soaked the jokes and asked them to build a special apparatus -- drawing enclosed. Danilov also asked for a couple of jars of mustard -- to strengthen the solution (actually he was expecting the Muravlyovs for a pelmeni* dinner). Danilov never saw the mustard -- it was hard to get for the Directorate, too. He was advised to buy mustard plasters at his own expense in drugstores for the purpose. But they did build him a fine apparatus. It was a marvel, sparkling and transparent, with shells and stones and batteries for heating the water.

Everything was going smoothly. Danilov seemed to have a job. He could live and play the viola. But it turned out that the Chancery of Pleasures was the only one pleased with him. From the point of view of the Chancery of the Other World he was goofing off, getting away with too much, and breaking the rules too often. And so he was. Danilov was called in. To teach him a lesson, he was assigned to the Ostankino house spirits in his neighborhood. Any other demon would lose sleep over the disgrace: to assign a demon to house spirits! But Danilov didn't mind. At first, of course, he was upset, but then one night he dropped in at a meeting at Argunovskaya Street, and he found the house spirits convivial. So he didn't lift a finger to change his humiliating position.

The bustle of human life engulfed him once more. He shrugged off their threats and warnings and decided to let life take its course. Then he got his! The messenger Valentin Sergeyevich, or whoever he really was, appeared and handed him the shiny summons with the crimson symbols for Time X. Now, Danilov lay in the damp cave in the Andes on the jaguar skin and could find no way out of his sad plight. "They're giving me time to come up with something," thought Danilov. "One last deadline, but at least they're giving it to me. Otherwise they would have hauled me into court... They want me to make a choice... This isn't the end, yet... I'll come up with something... Not right now ... later ... later ..."

These considerations calmed Danilov a bit, and making himself a definitive promise to come up with a plan of action in the next few hours, he fell asleep on his stone bed. Only to awaken quickly.

"I have to decide," Danilov thought at once. "I have to come up with something ... right now..."

And like the shimmer of mother of pearl on an oyster shell, like the breath of Aeolius, gentle Himeko appeared, barely moving the cave's damp air, anemones in her hand. She was the eternal priestess and prophetess, Nature's most refined creature, Danilov's longtime love. The pistachio of her silk kimono caressed the gravel of the cave floor, and she bowed to Danilov and placed the anemones at the foot of his bed. Danilov sat up in embarrassment, his feet dangling. Himeko stood in silence, with her head bowed meekly. Danilov admired her. However, her appearance now was rather untimely. Once there had been a great passion between them, a passion that made the ice melt in the Himalayas and swelled great rivers. There was a time when Danilov trembled as he hurried to his assignations with Himeko, but now he was calm. Once he had wanted to settle forever with her in the foggy mountains on the island of Honshu. But Himeko had merely pressed her finger to her lips and shook her head. Instead, Danilov accepted the custom she called tsumadoi, which meant he could fly to her on the wings of love only when she summoned. And for the romantic Danilov of those days with his impetuous nature, it was torture to sit around like a fool and await that summons, to visualize Himeko's soft, rounded shoulders, her flawless breasts, the languorous dance of her delicate, pliant arms. How long ago that was! If one could return to the intoxicating flights of youth!

Himeko still stood silently looking at Danilov. She was as submissive as his slave. A feeling of pity moved Danilov. His right foot began to reach for the stone floor of its own volition. But Danilov immediately caught himself: "No! Under no circumstances! No time for women!... How can you make an important decision with them around?" Danilov froze in that ludicrous position, his right foot touching the floor.

Something, new -- anxiety, even fear showed in Himeko's eyes. She had foreseen something in Danilov's fate. Her birdlike kimono sleeves fluttered, and she cried out. With her arms outstretched before her, she took several steps back into the gloom of the cave and froze in a trance. Then, returning from nowhere, she softly clapped, and the shoulder blade of an elk appeared in her little hands. A steady blue flame ignited at her feet and off to one side appeared a large stone bowl with ice water. Himeko carefully lowered the elk bone into the blue flame and knelt before the fire. A mysterious, melodious sound filled the cave. Danilov sat motionless, holding his breath, afraid to interfere with Himeko's fortune-telling. The elk bone grew hot. Himeko lifted it with her tender fingers, held it aloft for an instant, and then threw it into the ice water. With a horrible hissing and mysterious new sounds, no longer melodious but tense, the cave was enveloped in steam. Danilov's eyes watered and ears tingled, and Himeko threw a cake of kagimimota along with a snake shedding its skin into the bowl. The hissing stopped, the steam evaporated, and Himeko silently examined the elk bone to read Danilov's fate in the cracks that appeared on it. Suddenly she reeled, hurled the bone down on the stones, glanced horror-stricken at Danilov, screamed "Dzisai!" -- and disappeared.

"Wait! Don't! Don't go!" Leaping from his bed, Danilov called after Himeko.

But it was too late.

Danilov had never taken Himeko's many superstitions seriously. Her naive methods he considered really inappropriate for the modern age, but he never said anything to her -- for gentle Himeko was stubborn and he always respected the foibles of others. But now, because of Danilov, his dzisai -- or bearer of sorrows -- might perish! In keeping with ancient tradition, Himeko had turned one of her relatives into Danilov's dzisai to spare her beloved Danilov his sorrows and disasters. All Danilov's problems, according to Himeko's theory, were supposed to befall the dzisai instead. This poor dzisai could no longer go to the baths or barbershop, his Phillips shaver had been taken away from him, he could eat no meat, not even canned goods, and he had lost the right even to look at women. But even worse things awaited him. If any disaster did befall Danilov, Himeko immediately would blame the dzisai and kill him, thereby easing Danilov's fate. At this moment Himeko was off to kill his dzisai with a crooked samurai sword, while Danilov, no matter how much he was against this barbarous custom, could not change a thing. He knew that all too well and sat sorrowfully in the cave. "Things must be bad for me," he thought. "Maybe there is no way out..."

But still there was no peace for Danilov. The air trembled. Everything in the cave glowed and shook. Before Danilov's eyes stood the dazzling demon woman Anastasia, sparkling in her own right, and also because she was covered in precious stones. Of Smolensk blood, Anastasia was voluptuous and haughty, what you might call a cavalry maid: Sharing a fate similar to Danilov's, she was more successful than he. She laughed with delight, either present or future, and said in her beautiful mezzo-soprano: "So this is where you are, my darling Danilov! Why are you and your bracelet hiding from me?"

And without awaiting a reply from Danilov, she enfolded him in her powerful arms and held him tight. Trembling, Danilov wanted to push Anastasia away, but looking into her happy, faithful orange eyes, feeling her sweet hot body, he realized that he would not push her away, and it would have been stupid to do so. Let everything go to hell, he thought, and at that instant he forgot about everything else. And soon after in the Caribbean, despite all of Danilov's precautions, there arose a hurricane unpredicted by meteorologists. It impetuously blew over Florida and moved westward, tearing off iron roofs and rolling as gracefully as a truck over the cotton fields of Louisiana. The weather service gave it the watercolor name Pamela. Among Danilov's various, far-flung acquaintances there actually was a Pamela, but she had nothing to do with this hurricane.

5

There was a ring at the door. Actually, the Muravlyovs' bell was musical. It cost seven rubles, and its murmur was like the voice of a crane. Muravlyov, grumbling and hitching up his creased Polish jeans, went to open the door.

On the doorstep stood his wife, Tamara, carrying shopping bags as heavy as Alekseyev's weights.

"Well, come on in," Muravlyov said grumpily. "You must love those stores. You spend hours in them."

"What else can you do?" Tamara said with a sigh.

Muravlyov looked at the groceries. The beer was Zhiguli and with today's date, and there was kefir; his wife hadn't forgotten anything. But Muravlyov said, just in case: "You could have picked up more beer."

He followed his wife, and snatched a roll from the shopping bags she was dragging into the kitchen: "Danilov called."

"He calls every day," Tamara said, "but he never has the time to come over."

"He's coming today."

"Perfect!" Tamara was overjoyed. "I had this feeling. Green beans haven't been available in a long time, and I was at the grocery store and there they were. And I thought: If only Danilov came over for lobio."

"Well, he is coming," Muravlyov said, munching on the roll. "You start to cook, I have a lot of work."

After she caught her breath, Tamara peeked into the room of her son, Misha, who was given to brooding -- she hoped to see the fifth-grader struggling with his homework. But Misha was asleep, his head cradled in his arms on top of a piece of cardboard on the desk. Misha was quickly awakened, and Tamara saw that an article by the perceptive professor debunking the tales of aliens was mounted on the cardboard.

Around it was drawn knives, cannons, and fists, threatening the professor and the article.

"Oh, by the way, Vitya, how's Danilov doing with money?" Tamara remembered to ask.

Muravlyov, lying on the couch with a sports magazine, didn't reply right away.

"Money? The same ... even worse, I think."

"He said so?"

"He never says anything, you know Danilov..."

"What should we do?"

"I don't know," Muravlyov said. "I'll have that extra income ... and you wanted to decide about the fur coat..."

"Yes," Tamara said with a sigh. "I've got to decide about the fur."

The Muravlyovs owned a luxurious fur coat, a Siberian mink with black fate lines on the brown pelts. It was bought for six hundred hard-earned rubles from Tamara's coworker Inna Yakovlevna Olgina. The Muravlyovs were proud of it, and Viktor Mikhailovich Muravlyov himself was happy even on hot days to wear it on the balcony, to air out the coat and himself. However, the coat began cracking, as if it were made of tin, and exploding puffs on the flesh side. Furriers told them that it was hopeless and that they should have looked before buying -- it was a rotting coat. They suggested taking the coat without delay to a secondhand store to recoup at least some of their money. Their artist friend H. D. Eremchenko suggested turning the coat into mink brushes and selling them at a ruble apiece. There would be many buyers since the art supply stores had nothing but bristle brushes now. And in serving art, the Muravlyovs could get back not just their original six hundred rubles, but a cool thousand. But the Muravlyovs didn't want to part with the coat. They looked at it practically with tears in their eyes. They knew they might never have another coat like it again. However, now that Danilov's financial position was critical they had to make some decision.

Danilov was paying off two co-op apartments and his viola. The instrument had cost him three thousand, borrowed from friends and friends of friends. He bought it four years ago.

It was made over two hundred years ago by the hands of Albani himself. Danilov had a studio apartment built for himself and gave the one-bedroom co-op with the good kitchen and black bathroom to his ex-wife, Klavdia Petrovna. He felt obligated to pay for both apartments. How could he not! Should a woman, a weak creature, be forced to pay for the necessities of living? Danilov was a musician, and music is pure spirituality. When his then-wife, Klavdia Petrovna, left Danilov, he ran after her, took her by the arm, brought her back to the apartment, and left himself. He was sick of his wife. He knew that he had made a mistake, that he didn't love her, and, for that matter, she didn't love him. They both felt better after the divorce. Klavdia Petrovna waged a deafening war with Danilov before the divorce. But when she learned that he was giving her the apartment and offering to pay for it, she immediately promised to be a true friend to him forever. And to this day she considered herself a friend of Danilov's -- to the extent that she invariably showed up every time he returned from performing abroad and went through his suitcases under the pretext of helping a tired man unpack. "What a wonderful thing this is!" she would exclaim and then add: "But what do you need it for, tell me, Danilov?" Danilov had meant a hundred times to tell this total stranger to leave him alone, but because he was shy he didn't and merely gave her the things she liked.

His new place in Ostankino resembled a coffin, but there was plenty of room for Danilov's instrument. He kept his old viola, too, worth three hundred rubles, the kind sold by the hundreds in stores. Danilov had wanted to sell it, but then decided that it might come in handy someday. The Albani viola had a magical sound. Full, gentle, sad, and kind, like the voice of a close friend. Danilov had hunted for that instrument for six years. He had had to beg for it from Gansovsky's widow, battle furiously, almost in hand-to-hand combat, with his rivals, spend sleepless nights. Finally he got it from her for three thousand. How he loved that marvelous viola even before it was his! How he bore it home! As if it were an infant, whose appearance no doctor, no fortune-teller could have foretold. And when he got it home and opened the old case, Danilov froze in adoration, ready to sink to his knees before it. But he didn't. He stood quietly before it. He was so shy he couldn't even touch it for two hours. He was almost certain that when he drew the bow over the strings, no sound would come, only silence and that would kill him, former musician Danilov. And yet he dared: Nervously, convulsively he touched bow to string, practically jerking them. The sound came, and then, conquering his fear and love, Danilov began handling the bow more calmly and skillfully, and something more than sound arose: melody. Danilov played a short piece by Darius Milhaud, then he put down the bow. He did not want to play any more that evening. He was afraid to scare away the instrument's first music. He was happy enough. "That's it," he told himself, "enough!" Now he felt like the true owner of Albani's viola. Not just the owner. The master! Those were magnificent moments. He could have danced with joy.

Then, without his former timidity, although still agitated, he examined all the captivating details of the marvelous viola, palpated it tenderly, almost caressing, moved his fingers over all four strings, sought hidden dust particles in the crevices of the scroll, convinced himself that the upper and lower nuts, and fingerboard, and bridge of maple were well attached, and then moved his dry palm over the decks of mountain pine covered in Bolzana with a delicate brown lacquer, felt the impeccable smoothness of the purfling running around the upper deck, the sweet roundness of the rib, and the strong curves of the side indentations. Everything was wonderfull There was harmony in it all, just as in music! Danilov shut his eyes and used his fingers on the instrument the way a blind man touches his beloved's face. He recognized everything, he remembered it all! Danilov played the Milhaud piece again and then took out a large cashmere scarf from his closet. He had bought it in Tokyo just in case, to placate his ex-wife, but when she went through his suitcases, she had somehow overlooked it. Danilov wrapped the instrument in it and placed it in the case. Later he always put away his viola in the cashmere scarf.

Joy and art aside, the instrument was a valuable piece of property. Danilov immediately insured it. He could not even imagine that he would ever part from the instrument, but he had to have some protection. He had nothing but scorn for the insurance policy itself, but he paid his premiums regularly. Even though he was in debt. An orchestra player's salary, no matter how good the theater, is not enormous. Danilov repaid his friends on the relay-race system -- he borrowed from Peter to repay Paul. Sometimes there were snags in the debt flow, and Danilov had to get his friends to extend a particular loan. Soon he absolutely had to pay back seven hundred rubles to the Dobkins, and there was no place to get it. So, no matter how ashamed he was of the fire at Planerskaya, today for certain he had to go see the Muravlyovs -- first, simply to relax at their house, and second, to discuss with them his next step. Luckily he didn't have an evening performance.

However, the Muravlyovs needn't have bothered to wait. The lobio cooked on the gas range in vain.

In the morning, Danilov dropped by the savings bank, stood in line, and paid the mortgages. It was stuffy at the bank. The illiterate old ladies focused on Danilov as the one to fill in their forms and receipts -- he inspired great confidence. Danilov's fingers were stained with ink and every time he looked up from the paperwork, his eyes rested on a poster featuring a bosomy lady holding co-op payment booklets in her hands; above her in bold letters were the words "It's not parties that make a home -- it's paying off your mortgage!" Then Danilov had to return his bottles. There was a line of people with carts and bags at the refund stand. But Danilov was in luck, for the woman in charge, who was as self-important as an empress at a military review, said: "Hey, you, go load up the truck with these cases, or I'll have to close up. Take off your coat, or you'll get it dirty." Less than forty minutes later, Danilov had earned the right to refund his bottles at the back door. He didn't have time to get to the dry cleaners for his trousers, so he figured the heck with it -- after all, some of the buttons were missing.

At eleven Danilov was on Kachalov Street at the recording studio, where he was performing a Hindemith piece with an unfamiliar orchestra for Channel 3. The music was interesting, and radio pay was tolerable. As Danilov was wrapping his viola in the cashmere scarf, Strekalov, the oboist, came over to tell him a story about the hockey player Maltsev. Danilov was a big Dynamo fan and he wanted to hear about Maltsev; however, he found the discipline to say, "Excuse me, Kostya, I'm late for the theater." On the way he managed to eat a fruit-flavored ice cream stick and still not be late. They were rehearsing a ballet by Slovensky, The Chronicles of a Dive Bomber; twice Danilov had to play across the melody and even against it, but he and the conductor were pleased. In the break Danilov started looking for the oboe player, but he then remembered that he had been playing with Strekalov in a different orchestra. "Pfui!" said Danilov in dismay. "I could have listened to the story about Maltsev and still been on time ..." He ran to the food counter, but Galina Petrovna Nikoleva, dressed as Zibel, the woman warrior, came over to him. She was in charge of the evening program series.

"Here, Volodya," Nikoleva said. "This is the schedule of our conductor's concerts. It's not our sector, but they felt there was work for you here, too."

"All right," Danilov said, taking the paper. "I'll be glad to."

He was really close to the food now, but Sanin, one of the administrators, grabbed him by the arm.

"Let's go, let's go," Sanin said. "People keep phoning you, and I have to run all over the theater to find you."

The call was from Sergei Mikhailovich Melekhin, an old friend of Danilov's.

"Volodya, dear," Melekhin said nervously, "I rarely ask you for anything, but now I'm simply begging..."

Melekhin was in charge of club activities at an affluent scientific research institute, and he begged Danilov for things often.

"What do you want?" Danilov asked.

"We're having a program, you just have to play a few opuses, you know we pay well, it's tonight -- "

"I can't tonight... friends are expecting me..."

"You don't have a performance! You just have to play a bit, you'll be on time for your friends... We pay well, this is science here, not art, like you people. The speakers will have come for nothing if you don't come. Professors, art historians -- ten of them -- you'll play pieces composed by humans and by computers. For comparison ... it'll be interesting for you, too. The works were written especially for the viola..."

"For the viola?" Danilov was amazed.

"For the violai" Melekhin saw that Danilov was nibbling at the bait. "The computer wrote for the viola, can you imagine mat! Then people, professors, coming just for the viola. And if there's no musician, it'll be a scandal, I'll be fired! Help me out, be a pal, and I'll hand you the cash in a white envelope on the spot..."

"I'll think about it," Danilov said uncertainly.

"What's to think about! Be at my office right at seven, you'll look over the music, play, and get to your friends' house...."

"Well, all right..."

"Great! You've saved me! That S.O.B. -- by the way, you know him -- Misha Korenev -- promised a week ago, and canceled at the last moment.... I'll expect you at seven!"

Melekhin hung up energetically, before Danilov could think twice. Danilov stood by the phone and thought: "What does Misha Korenev have to do with this? Misha never even picked up a viola, he's a violinist in a pops orchestra..." However, such considerations were already beside the point.

At seven, Danilov, berating himself for being weak-willed, arrived at the glass-and-aluminum club of the institute. A crowd was buzzing in the hall and lobby -- after the music discussion they were screening Sun Valley Serenade, borrowed from the film foundation. Backstage the professors were smoking, all respectable and self-confident men. Among them Danilov saw Kudasov. Kudasov was pressuring Melekhin by saying that he was late and demanding that they begin. However, as soon as he spied Danilov he froze as stiff as Lot's wife. Regaining his senses, he sailed up to Danilov and said: "You're here, too? The food's getting cold at the Muravlyovs'! Well, this is marvelous, we'll ride over together." And he inhaled through his nose, sucking in smells from that far-off, soul-stirring kitchen.

Casting a sideways glance at Danilov, Melekhin acted as if he hadn't just a few hours before been on his knees at the telephone, but instead Danilov had forced his way onto the panel. Melekhin came over, took Danilov by the arm, led him to an empty room, and handed him the music. Staring off through the wall somewhere at the burdens of his job, he said: "You've got an hour, Volodya, there are only sixteen pieces here, eight by human composers, eight by computers, you can look them over, or you can take a nap -- I know you can sight-read Stravinsky... That Misha Korenev is such a shit!"

Here the door opened and two young ladies came in. The crystal arrow of Fate silently and deliriously pierced Danilov's left side.

"Here, Volodya, I want to introduce you to someone!" Melekhin said happily. "This is Ekaterina Ivanovna Kovalev-skaya, the activist on our panel. I'm off..."

Danilov already knew Ekaterina Ivanovna. She was a friend of the Muravlyovs and also the woman who, without knowing it, had burst into the life of house spirit Ivan Afanasyevich. Ekaterina Ivanovna was glad to see Danilov, but he noted an unusual hint of sorrow in her eyes.

"And this, Volodya, is a friend from work," Ekaterina Ivanovna said. "Her name is Natasha."

"Volodya," she said and offered Danilov her hand. The touch of Natasha's skin burned him. It was as if he were a high-school student on his first date.

Natasha's eyes were gray and deep. She looked at Danilov with amazement and trembling. Danilov wanted to say something bright and clever, as he usually did to women, but instead he spoke shyly and even harshly:

"You'll excuse me, I'm seeing this music for the first time, and I should read it through..."

"All right, all right," Ekaterina Ivanovna said. "We won't bother you."

Natasha said nothing, she merely looked at Danilov, and his heart pounded. "What's the matter with me?" he thought. "Why am I so nervous and upset? Could this woman with gorgeous gray eyes appear -- and change everything in my life? ... Other people have magical moments, why shouldn't I experience one, too? ... She hasn't said a word. I don't know a thing about her. But she came in and I feel lightheaded, and solemn, and sad, as if I were way up high somewhere..."

However, the music couldn't wait. Danilov forced himself to open it, and he was dumbfounded. He grabbed his instrument and ran into the main dressing room. There was Melekhin, with no chance to escape.

"Sergei Mikhailovich, what is this?" Danilov cried.

"What? Where?" Melekhin was sincerely surprised.

"This! The music!"

"It's music, Volodya!"

"I can see that it's music!" shouted Danilov. "But these pieces aren't written for the viola, they're for the violin! What kind of a fool do you think I am?"

"Easy, easy, Volodya," whispered Melekhin. "It's my fault. But it's more the fault of that shit, Misha Korenev. He promised me a week ago, and this morning he sends some stupid letter: He can't!"

"And I can't either," Danilov said. "I have a viola, not a violin."

"You can, Volodya, you can do anything, I'll pay you an extra twenty rubles. Just play a fifth higher. The people in the audience won't know the difference if you're playing on a viola, a violin, or a fireplug..."

"As a musician," Danilov said, "I'm offended and disgusted by what you say. I'm leaving immediately."

"No, no, maybe I didn't express myself correctly, I'm an outspoken person, forgive me, but you can't leave. Can't you, a violist, easily play whatever's written for some crummy violin?"

And then Danilov saw Natasha again. She and Ekaterina Ivanovna were looking into the dressing room. Natasha's eyes met Danilov's. She blushed, and smiled at him. And Danilov realized that he had run out angrily not only to chew out Melekhin and make a scene, but also to see Natasha one more time or at least know that she was nearby. He also realized that now he would play on his viola any music at all, whether it was written for the violin, the trombone, or even the snare drum.

"Well, all right," Danilov said. "But this is the last time I'll put up with your tricks."

"You're such an intelligent man, Volodya!" Sergei Mi-khailovich said with admiration.

Danilov returned to the room allocated to him and thought, "Really, why shouldn't I be able to play a violin part?" He reproached himself for cowardice. He shouldn't have made a scene in the first place -- his instrument was good, and his own dreams of music had already taken the viola to heights that no violin, even one from the hands of Stradivarius himself, could ever reach. So now that the opportunity was at hand, why hold back? Fearlessness was never out of place! Forty minutes later, Danilov came out happy, in a good mood, and even a little reckless. The panel was beginning.

The important personages, scholarly and verbose, had taken their places around the table on the stage. Danilov settled down on a chair backstage and waited for his moment. Nearby, quietly playing cards, were six electric-guitar players, rings flashing, lace cuffs wiping dust from the club's requisitioned furniture. These loud young guys had at first scorned, or maybe even felt sorry for Danilov the way limo drivers pity a rain-soaked coachman on the box of a dray cart. But then they got a look at his instrument wrapped in cashmere and they grew quiet and morose.

First to speak on the panel was Kudasov. He stood so that he could see both the audience and Danilov, just in case he had to prevent Danilov from sneaking off to the dinner without him. Then from the other side of Moscow came chocolate-makers who presented their new candies named Wolves and Sheep, created specially for the centennial celebration of the playwright Ostrovsky. The candies were passed around to the panel members for tasting. While the audience waited, totally mesmerized, and accompanied by a drum roll that would have been more appropriate to a death-defying stunt at the circus, the panel members chewed the candy, grew animated, and praised the chocolatemakers, while the gray and red wrappers were circulated among the audience to familiarize them with the product. Finishing up his candy, Boris Chashcharin, international target shooting champion just back from Uruguay, rose from the table and approached the lectern, rifle in hand. He said that he found speaking difficult because his business was shooting, not speaking. But he attempted a joke: he regretted that the audience had not brought along dishes, for if they had, they could toss them in the air and enable him to prove he was a class act. Suddenly a marvelous porcelain plate from a Meissen service arose above the audience, flew over the first few rows toward the stage, and froze some ten feet directly above Chashcharin. Chashcharin wildly ogled the plate, aimed his rifle, and shot. The bullet struck, but the plate did not shatter. It merely swayed in the air, as if dancing a minuet, and descended five feet. Chashcharin shot again, but once again the bullet did nothing more than make the plate spin and shimmer in the twinkling stage lights.

"Enough now!" scolded Danilov. "How childish can you get?" He sent the plate back to the secondhand shop on The Arbat* and pushed the link on his bracelet back to E. "What a joker!" Danilov couldn't get over his own behavior. "A silly child... Why? I did it because of Natasha!" Danilov suddenly realized. "That's why I feel like a kid again -- because Natasha's here."

The embarrassed sharpshooter was saying that the climate in Uruguay was different from Moscow's, and that he hadn't yet readjusted to Moscow's atmospheric pressure. That's why he wasn't really up to par. He sat down, and in his place rose a thin, agile man with sateen cuff protectors. An accountant by the look of him, he was, in reality, the builder of the computer software that wrote music. His name was Leshchov. He said that his computer program, by creating variations on one or another musical theme and even orchestrating it in the manner of a given composer, was prepared to write complex compositions of ten to fifteen minutes' duration, not to mention lyric and civic songs. When we learn to manufacture better silicon chips the machine will be able to compose ballets, symphonies, and if given a text, operas. Say, if the need ever arose, you could program an algebra textbook for the sixth grade into the machine and get a school opera.

"And now we will ask Comrade Vladimir Alekseyevich Danilov, soloist with the theater orchestra, to play sixteen pieces on the violin, eight by the computer, and eight by people with conservatory educations," Leshchov said. "And let's have the esteemed audience and scholars decide which was written by computer, and which by humans. And then let us think about the future of music..."

Danilov came out on the stage meaning to set the computer programmer straight: He wasn't a soloist but a member of the orchestra, and he certainly wasn't carrying a violin. However, something kept him from the first admission. He bowed to the audience and said courteously:

"Excuse me, but this is not a violin. It is a viola."

"A viola?" Leshchov was amazed. "If we had known that it is a viola, we would have adjusted the computer program..."

"It's all right," Danilov said soothingly.

As he sat down on the high-back chair upholstered in reddish vinyl and set his music on the stand, he kept thinking: "What if Natasha has left the auditorium and I never see her again?" But no, he sensed that she was here. Somewhere in the blackness of the auditorium she was looking at him, looking not out of idle curiosity but expecting music from him. Danilov lifted the bow. Now he could think of nothing but that he play the music properly, without betraying it or making any mistakes. He was attentive and precise, but his recent opinion that he could play these pieces easily, without a spiritual investment, now seemed overly self-confident and boastful. He made a mistake in the third piece, immediately lowered his bow, apologized to the audience, and started over. Suddenly everything started to go easily. Music was born. "Oh, my God," thought Danilov. "how good this is! If it could be like this always!"

When the sound died down, Danilov seemed unwilling to part with it: He held the bow on the strings for a long while, but finally lowered both bow and viola. The applause, the kind you might expect after Plisetskaya's leaps as Kitri, ruined his charmed state. In confusion Danilov looked at the audience, ready to plead: "What's the matter with you? Don't!

Don't... Sit quietly... Don't scare off my sounds, they're still here somewhere, they haven't flown away yet..." Danilov turned and saw that the people at the table were applauding heartily and that the guitarists, peering out from backstage, were giving him the thumbs-up sign.

Melekhin appeared at Danilov's side and whispered to him passionately. "You're a genius! You saved me! I didn't think you'd manage, after that third number I wanted to run away and hide somewhere... I swore at Misha Korenev, that shit, that traitor. But then you started! How you played! You turned your soul inside out for me! And that music was garbage, a piece of shit!"

"Shit," Danilov said with a nod, "shit..."

"Here, take this." Melekhin shoved an envelope at Danilov. "You'll see, we're not stingy..."

"What's this?"

"Money!"

"What money?" Danilov didn't understand. "What does money have to do with it?"

"Take it, take it," Melekhin said. "Stop fooling around."

In the meantime the programmer Leshchov was asking the audience which eight pieces in its opinion were written by the computer. The braver ones called out that it wrote the first three and nothing else. A young lab worker stood up and said that on the contrary, the computer had written all the pieces and played them, too, while the soloist merely moved the bow, in sync with the recording, the way they do on television. The audience hooted him down, calling him a fool, a computer nerd, and a pathetic jerk. They wanted him thrown out before the screening of Sun Valley Serenade. The scholars at the table tended toward the theory that the machine had written the early pieces. They asked Danilov what he thought. He said that he thought nothing. Then Leshchov said, with the solemn triumph of Turandot revealing the answers to the riddles that had doomed her suitors, the machine wrote pieces two, four, five, eight, and ten through thirteen. The audience sat in a shamefaced hush. But a discussion ensued.

Kudasov rushed into the fray, even though he had been invited for another part of the program. But Danilov did not listen. A few fragments of thoughts and sentences reached him, but they did not affect him. He sat there tired and emptied. His strength had left him. Danilov wanted coffee and cognac or even two mugs of beer. His mouth and throat were dry, as if the sounds of ten minutes ago had not been born in the viola but in Danilov himself, in his larynx and lungs. "How well I played!" Danilov returned to the thought. "Why was that?" And he worried that he might have accidentally switched his bracelet to the demon state.

But no, the links were in place. Danilov had performed in his human mode. "Good boy!" he said to himself. "So you can do it! If you played garbage like that, and for the violin to boot, then you really can play! Besides a little skill and a little talent, I must have had something else... Could I have been inspired?" He probably had, Danilov agreed with himself. Why shouldn't he? "I was playing for Natasha," Danilov thought.

"Now we will now ask the theater soloist," he heard Lesh-chov's voice, "to share his thoughts on the music written by the computer..."

"What does the computer have to do with it?" Danilov wanted to say. "Your computer is stupid. The music was in my soul!" Instead, he muttered uncertainly:

"Well... in general... Thanks to the computer ..."

"There!" Leshchov was pleased. "Even musicians are beginning to acknowledge the future. He is not the first to..."

"I wish they'd cut the chatter!" Danilov prayed, "so I could find Natasha..."

Sensing his impatience, Kudasov came up immediately and whispered: "Well? Are we off to the Muravlyovs'? Eh? Everything's getting cold..."

"They invited you?" Danilov asked harshly.

"Well ..." stammered Kudasov and shot Danilov a reproachful look, as though he had violated the rules of basic decency.

"So you go," Danilov said. "And give them my regrets. I can't... I haven't seen Sun Valley Serenade in such a long time ... and it's a musical."

"Well, I'll go," Kudasov said sadly. "But without you, they'll serve junk..."

Hurt, he clumsily moved away, his pockets stuffed with samples of the Wolves and Sheep chocolate candies.

Quietly, without waiting for the end of the discussion, which was obviously heading toward discrediting music by humans, Danilov and his chair edged toward the wings and off the stage. In the empty lobby he saw Natasha.

"It's you..." Danilov stammered. "Where's Ekaterina Ivanovna?"

"She's in the audience," Natasha said. "I was afraid that vou would leave now and I would never see you again. So I came out. Thank you for the music..."

"You liked it?"

"Very much! I haven't felt music that way in a long time..."

"You know," Danilov said with a shy smile, "for some reason, it worked for me today..."

After a silence, Natasha abruptly asked: "What about Misha Korenev? Why didn't he come? He was supposed to play those pieces, I heard..."

"Do you know Misha Korenev?" Danilov asked in amazement.

But the electric guitarists were finishing, moving the audience with words of purple passion; the doors opened into the lobby, and Natasha led Danilov into the auditorium, for the movie was about to start. The lights went out. Danilov sat between Ekaterina Ivanovna and Natasha. In his lap he held his beloved instrument like a sleeping infant. The film was good, as is any good reminiscence of childhood. But Danilov watched the screen absentmindedly, and even Glenn Miller's loud, happy tunes, innocent of the imminent death of the maestro in wartime skies, could not make Danilov forget that he was sitting next to Natasha. "What's happening to me?" thought Danilov. "Have I ever reacted to a woman like this before? It used to be fun. Carefree and exciting, just games. But now I'm trembling all over -- and it's been happening all evening! And ... Is this witchcraft? What if it's a setup?" But Danilov cast aside that vile thought. He was no longer tired and drained, the way he had been onstage. On the contrary, he felt his strength returning, and returning from the left side -- the side of his heart, where Natasha was right now.

The movie ended. Ekaterina Ivanovna said good-bye and went to the streetcar. Kudasov peeked out from around a corner, nursing one last hope. But he saw what was going on and slipped away in annoyance. Danilov stood in the silence of the black-and-white street with Natasha.

"I live near Pokrovka," Natasha said, "in Khokhlovsky Alley."

"That's my favorite part of Moscow," Danilov said, honestly happy. "The alleys of the Old Gardens. Seeing them at night will be a joy."

"You'll take me home?" Natasha looked up.

"I would consider it an honor if you would allow me."

They walked along the banks of the Yauza, and then crossed the boulevard and wandered down the bare asphalt field of the Khitrov Market until they got to Podkopavevsky Alley and then at Nikola in Podkopai they turned toward the Khokhly. To their right quietly rose the darkened palace of the Shuishkys, and beyond, the long headquarters, sky-blue in daytime, of the Social Revolutionaries, which was stormed in August 1918 and was now a kindergarten. In the crook of Khokhlovsky Alley they came upon the nocturnal hum of Jurgenson's Music Publishers, now a music typography shop. Jurgenson's always filled Danilov with thoughts of Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky, who had brought his pages here, the ink still wet. Natasha was silent, and Danilov said nothing to her about his favorite places in this tangle of crooked alleyways. For some reason he was sure that Natasha was feeling everything that he was. At Trinity in Khokhly, its lacy gilt flower of a cross glimmering freshly even at night, they stopped. To the left ran a footpath to Kolpachny Alley, to the palace of net-man Mazeppa.

"I live in that big building," Natasha said.

"What a coincidence!" Danilov said. "I often come here. I walk the hills, when I'm tired..."

"Do you know," Natasha asked suddenly, "why Misha Korenev refused to play?"

"I don't know. Did you come to the concert because of him?"

"No. I would have come anyway. But he sent me such a strange letter today. Something about Paganini and -- "

"Are you friends?" Danilov asked, already jealous of Korenev.

"Yes ... we were friends," Natasha mumbled. "I've known him a long time. We were in Perm ... I had run away from home, from Moscow, with a man I loved then to join the theater. I was just a girl, I dreamed of becoming an actress..."

"Are you an actress now?"

"No. I'm a lab technician. Katya and I work at the same institute. It was all so long ago and it ended so sadly!"

She turned abruptly and headed for her oppressive, gloomy house. Danilov hurried after her and thought: "What is it that I like about her? Her hair, her eyes, and hands, and shoulders, and knees, and voice ... I don't know her at all, I don't know if she's stupid or smart, whether she has a conscience or if she's dishonest, bighearted, or petty... I don't know ... and I don't care ... I can't analyze my feelings... That's how to lose them... No, I know one thing already: She's a good and kind person ... she is my kind of person... But what difference does it make, anyway?"

"That's it, we're here."

"I want to see you again," Danilov said with a sigh.

"So do I," Natasha said solemnly.

Danilov's right hand (his instrument was in his left) touched Natasha's hands. He felt their goodness, and shyly but determinedly he pulled Natasha toward him and kissed her. She responded, and there was no hesitation in her manner.

They stood on the stairs near Natasha's apartment and could not let go of each other for a long time. Time dripped into a clay pitcher and thickened into clover honey. Finally Natasha moved away from Danilov, looked at him intently with her marvelous gray eyes, unlocked her door, and shut it with a bang behind her.

"You can lose your head like this," thought Danilov emotionally. He sank to a step of the hundred-year-old stairs, only to realize that he did not have his viola.

He rushed down the stairs. The viola was nowhere to be seen.

He dashed into the street. He searched, sometimes with his hands, all the places where he had stood with Natasha and where he remembered having the instrument, but it was in vain.

The viola had vanished.

6

The next morning Danilov received a call from the flutist Bocharov from the pops orchestra, who told him that yesterday their conservatory classmate Misha Korenev had committed suicide. The services were tomorrow at noon on Kachalov Street, and the funeral was to be at Babushkino Cemetery at two.

"How could this be?" Danilov whispered into the phone.

Bocharov explained that he didn't know any more himself, he was just supposed to call all Korenev's friends. The only tiling he did know was that Korenev had thrown himself out of his apartment window, which was on the fifth floor of a co-op near the Shcherbasky metro station. He left a note -- "Please don't blame anyone ..." -- on a scrap of newspaper. His bow was on the floor, the violin on the table, and Pa-ganini's twenty-first capriccio on the music stand. The first people to reach the apartment got the impression that Misha had been playing, then tossed aside the violin, and jumped out the window.

"I thought he was married?" Danilov inquired.

"He was," Bocharov said. "He had a wife and two daughters."

Danilov could not get out of bed for a long time. Finally, he sighed, got up, and put on his shirt. He had to go to the police and then to the insurance company.

"He had written something to Natasha about Paganini," Danilov recalled.

At the police station he reported the loss of his viola and asked them to locate it. He informed the insurance company of his disaster, too. He went to the lost-and-found and looked through the things found in the metro but did not find his instrument.

At the theater, Danilov was immediately called to the phone. On the other end was Muravlyov's voice.

"Vova," said Muravlyov," we took the fur coat down to the secondhand store. So very soon you'll get five hundred rubles to pay back the Dobkins for your viola."

"Thank you, Vitya! And tell Toma, please, how grateful I am," Danilov said, touched. "Please forgive me about last night."

"Forget it," said Muravlyov magnanimously.

In the orchestra pit Danilov's appearance with his cheap viola elicited general astonishment. The other players liked Danilov and they sympathized with his torment during the siege of the widow Gansovsky. Now an attentive ear could discern a certain nervousness and an occasional gentle high tremolo of irony in the orchestra's tuning up.

Danilov felt bad. He wanted to tell his colleagues about the disappearance of the Albani, but he said nothing. He was afraid that telling the truth would jinx his hope that the instrument was just about to be returned to him. That hope was already as shaky as an aspen leaf. "Oh, if only some crook had stolen my viola!" dreamed Danilov. Then it would be found for sure -- Danilov had faith in the police. This dream was sweet, but only a dream, and Danilov knew it. He was almost certain that if there were a crook, it would be no ordinary crook. Perhaps the ambitious chess player Valentin Sergeyevich had been given another delicate assignment.

If he was being mocked or tested as Time X approached, Danilov ought to manifest self-control and patience. He convinced himself of that with great difficulty. Of course, if Danilov were to dip into the demon state now, he could easily trace the instrument. But that was all that Valentin Sergeyevich, and, more importantly, whoever was behind him, needed. By now they must be bored with their work and waiting for Danilov to crack.

Danilov had another reason for not switching to demonic mode: He had decided to deal with music only as a human. Otherwise there would have been no end to the marvels he could show the world. But he no longer would have been on an equal footing with humans, and Danilov wished to play by the rules. He was determined not to retreat from this decision in the smallest detail. "Maybe it's for the best," Danilov suddenly thought, "that my Albani has vanished. Any fool can play well on an Albani, and if I'm planning to be a great musician, I have to sound like I'm playing a great instrument even when I'm not." He calmed down a bit, convincing himself that, in a short while, he would be playing marvelously on his three-hundred-ruble viola, too.

They played Don Carlos, and broke up exhausted. The spare viola elicited no curses from its owner. It sounded tolerable this time, and anyway, it certainly wasn't at fault.

"Misha Korenev," thought Danilov, "was trying to master Paganini's abstruse riddles without the aid of a Stradivarius. He didn't have a Strad, only a simple factory-made violin... Now it doesn't matter to him... But all his suffering remains for us..."

The whole orchestra was talking about Korenev's suicide today. There were other people, besides Danilov, who had known Misha, and everybody was upset by the death of a musician. What had happened to Korenev they could only guess. Danilov and Korenev hadn't been close friends at the conservatory. In the past few years he had seen him perhaps three times, once at a concert, twice at the Maryinsky baths -- first in the steam room and later in line at the beer counter. They had had a conversation, which astonished Danilov and which he promptly forgot. Now he learned that Korenev knew Natasha.

The next day he did not attend the service and vacillated about going to the burial. He did not like funerals. But he went nevertheless. He could not locate Misha's grave right away, but when he saw a group of people in the cold birch grove, he headed that way and was not mistaken. There were a lot of people, most of them young. Misha lay tranquilly, his face distorted neither by suffering nor pain. It was as if he had died in his flight toward earth and had never touched the cruel stones of the sidewalk. A thin man with a pointy nose read someone's poetry. A woman of thirty, dressed in black, and two frightened girls stood by the coffin. Danilov saw many familiar musicians, some of whom nodded silently at him and others who merely slipped him a glance. Something made Danilov look around, and at a distance he saw Natasha standing by a green bench and weeping. Danilov was confused. It seemed indecent to approach Natasha now, so he went on standing with his back to her. Was she an apparition, he thought, or a human being?

They helped the widow up and led her from the cemetery. Then Natasha went to the snow-sprinkled grave and placed roses on the mound. The widow saw her, stopped, and seemed to want to go back, but then she grew still, and her friends led her to the gate.

Danilov waited for Natasha.

"Don't talk to me about anything today," Natasha said. "And don't see me home. But if you want, call me tomorrow, here's my number."

She handed Danilov a scrap of paper, turned quickly, and went past the gravestones and crosses down a path to the left, apparently to escape the notice of Korenev's widow.

At the cemetery gate Danilov approached the widow, and, excusing himself, handed her the white envelope he had received two days ago from Melekhin.

"What's this?" the widow asked, bewildered. She wasn't in full possession of her senses, and it was not clear to her what was happening at the moment.

"This, you know..." Danilov was embarrassed. "Your husband appeared at our institute, and this is the money we still owed him..."

"Who are you?" the widow asked.

"I'm a friend of Misha's," Danilov said. "I work at the institute ... at the club..."

"Thank you," the widow said. "Please come with us, we'll be eating and drinking to Misha's memory at our house..."

Danilov had no choice. He was happy that the widow had accepted the money and that the whole business, which had been worrying him all day, had gone smoothly without a hitch. The car turned off Prospect Mira before the Shcher-basky metro station and stopped in front of a white house with balconies that Danilov had never seen before. He slipped away from the group unnoticed.

"I think I'll go to the Maryinsky baths," Danilov decided. "They're nearby, and I'll have some beer, if I'm lucky." It was at the Maryinsky baths that he had spoken with Misha Korenev for the last time.

The baths had beer.

The dark bar, with mops and soap on the counter and a beer spigot reigning over all, was crowded. There were construction workers in greasy overalls, clerks from the hardware store, workers from Kalibr, you name it, they were there! The wrinkled, gray-haired woman bartender, known as Baba Zina, did not even wait for the foam to settle. Slapping down war veterans who tried to get to the head of the line, she kept shouting: "Mugs! Mugs! Boys, don't hold up mugs! I'll only serve people with buckets and jugs!"

Danilov pushed his way to a corner of the bar without spilling his beer onto the backs of the other customers, and put two mugs on the counter that ran around the room. Moving aside a newspaper covered with scraps of sausage and cheese, he drank one beer right away and sent the empty mug back to Baba Zina.

"Hey, you, got a shot glass?" Someone nudged Danilov in the ribs.

"What?"

"I said, have you got a shot glass?"

"No, I don't carry one with me," Danilov said angrily and turned to the wall.

"Misha and I stood right here a year ago," thought Danilov, "and somebody asked us for a glass. Maybe it was the same man.... And Misha said: 'Get a collapsible one.' "

Misha had been sad that day. He drank mug after mug of beer, but without enjoyment, almost not realizing that he was drinking. Danilov treated him to some fish -- Caspian roach, which even had the roe. But Misha kept staring into space, tugging at his bushy moustache, tugging so furiously he seemed to want to pull out a clump. The conversation was quiet at first, the kind that occurs between Moscow acquaintances who had not seen each other in a while. How are you, where are you working, what do you make, do you have children, what kind of an apartment, how are things going toward getting a car? Misha asked and answered himself, while Danilov sipped his beer and learned that things with Misha were great, he was making plenty of money. For several years in a row he had been touring in the East and North with small ensembles and a singer. He himself sang and played in the "Big Beat" style, and some months made as much as two thousand for that. So naturally he had a Zhiguli car and an apartment, and his two daughters and wife were well dressed. And suddenly Misha broke down. He shoved aside his beer mug abruptly, spilling the beer, and began speaking avidly, angrily, it didn't matter to whom, whether to Danilov or some other regular of the bar at the Maryinsky baths. "Enough, enough! Enough!" Misha said. "I've had enough of everything! Money, women, fun and games! It's all a shell, the cellophane wrapping. It's all a way of existing! But what about the existence itself? Where is it? Sooner or later we all come face to face with the essence of life, and then what are we? Nothing! And what is life? Life is passion, life is thirst. Passion and thirst for what you have taken to be your life's meaning. You know, Danilov, what my life's meaning is.... But I was afraid, afraid, afraid to take risks, afraid to take on more than I could handle, afraid that the burden would be too hard, afraid of sacrifice -- and so I betrayed... everything... I'm not a devout man, but the words of John the Divine astonished me: 'Love destroys fear... He who is afraid is imperfect in love...' You understand? I was afraid, easily making excuses for my fear, and I lived too easily. I was afraid and I was imperfect in my love -- for music, and for women, and for life. And now it's not that I don't love anything, it's simply that I hate myself, my life, my music! No, that's not right, I haven't stopped loving music completely yet... That's my last chance... I still might be able... Do you remember what Professor Vladimirsky used to say about my talent?" Danilov did not remember, but he nodded anyway. But Misha hadn't even needed the nod. He immediately went on to tell about going to a body-building coach. He was giving him special exercises for the muscles and ligaments of the shoulder, forearm, hands, and fingers. In the past few months Misha had almost achieved his goal. "Look!" Misha said. "Paganini's fingers and hands were longer, but I can compensate for that now because I have ..." However, Misha did not finish but gave Danilov a suspicious look, as if he were an informer, a sober fear appeared in his eyes, as if he were giving away a state secret. "Well, anyway," Misha said. "I have to be off now." And quickly, with a kind of buzzing sound, like a bumblebee, he left the bar of the Mar-yinsky baths. Only when he had reached the last step of the steep stairway leading up to the street -- which had the effect of placing him on a pedestal or in a pulpit -- did he yell to Danilov over the noise of the beer mugs, "Remember! He who is afraid is imperfect in love!" And he vanished.

Misha's nervous confessional had upset Danilov then, but to tell the truth, he hadn't paid much attention to it. Danilov knew his own path in music. He could sympathize with Misha, but what did Misha need with sympathy? Now Danilov recalled Korenev's words, and he saw them in a different light.

"Anyone need a violin?"

An unwashed, puffy bum in a railroad conductor's jacket was pushing his way through the people intent on their beer mugs and annoying them with his sales pitch. His unshaven beard was white and soft, and it lay on his cheeks like beer foam.

"Anyone need a violin? Eh? I'll give it away for a bottle!"

"What kind of violin?" said one patron.

"How am I supposed to know? A violin. With strings. In a case. A big one. The case is a piece of junk, but the violin is covered with lacquer. Just four rubles will do it."

"What do I need a violin for, Grandpa?"

"Buy it for your son, think about your children, don't drink away all your money! Send him off to school. Or you can use the violin to drive nails into the wall, it's sturdy. Or you can dry hankies and underpants on the strings." "Grandpa, admit it, you swiped the violin!" "Heaven forbid! I drove Goering to his trial in my railroad car. I never steal. I found it in my courtyard, on Tsandera, on the coal pile. It was just lying there. I asked all the musicians in our building. One plays the accordion, another the mouth harp, but nobody needs a violin. I'm not asking a lot. Half a liter, that's all. But I won't take a single shot glass. I'd rather smash it up in its case." "Go on, Grandpa, get out of here, nobody's buying." "Excuse me," Danilov said, "Where, exactly, is your violin?" The bum looked Danilov over and said: "Outside the door. You can't push your way through here with it."

Danilov had been lost in his memories of Korenev and only heard the conversations with the bum out of the corner of his ear, so to speak. Now he followed nervously, almost certain of what was outside. The bum beckoned Danilov around the corner, and there on the frozen ground, which nevertheless smelled bad to Danilov, he saw his viola. That is, first he saw an old worn case. But the bum clumsily opened it and the viola was revealed. "Where's the scarf?" Danilov asked. "What scarf? What scarf?" the veteran asked, but he averted his eyes. "There was a scarf," Danilov said, trying to speak calmly. "No scarf! No scarf!" the bum angrily muttered. "If you don't want the violin, don't take it!"

It was clear that the bum had taken the scarf, and now, grumbling, he began to close the case. What did Danilov care about the scarf? He did not know what to do. Should he tell the bum that this was his instrument, grab it, and run for it? The bum would cause a ruckus and the bar patrons, not caring what was what, would gladly pounce on Danilov. He would get mangled and the instrument would certainly be damaged to the point of ruining its tone. Taking the bum to the police was also a dubious undertaking -- he might disappear with the viola along the way. The only solution was buying it. "How much do you want for the viola?" asked Danilov.

"The what?"

"I mean the violin ..."

"How much, how much! As much as it costs. A half liter."

"All right," Danilov said.

He began rummaging around in his pockets and found a ruble and change. "I had money," Danilov thought, bewildered. "I came out with money ..." And then he remembered: Yes, he had started out with money, but he had given it to Misha Korenev's widow.

"You know," said the agitated Danilov, "I can't quite make four rubles..."

"Oh, all right," the bum said, taking pity. "Give me three sixty-two and not a kopeck less. That leaves me without anything for a bite to eat."

"All I have is a ruble and change..."

"Oh, no!" The bum picked up the instrument and put it under his arm. "For a big violin like this! All that'll buy is the shittiest port wine! You drink it!"

Danilov took the man by the arm and spoke gently:

"Just come to my house. It's only a half hour away. I'll give you enough for ten liters..."

"You can't fool me!" the bum said angrily. "If you don't have four rubles -- take a walk!"

"I'll bring you the money in forty minutes!" Danilov begged. "Just wait for me."

"If I don't get a drink in the next ten minutes, even a doctor won't be able to save me. I'm going to start smashing up this violin in ten minutes."

And the bum turned and headed with the viola back into the bar.

"Wait!" Danilov called after him.

But the bum was implacable.

"What'll I do? What?" Danilov thought feverishly. He didn't want to violate his principle, oh, how he didn't want to violate it, and use his demonic powers to get the instrument back. He knew that he would blame himself long after if he succumbed to such weakness. He was practically screaming at himself for cowardice, practically stamping his feet at himself. And then a helpful thought won out: "You'd only be violating it for a trifle, just for four rubles!" Danilov shut his eyes and pushed the S link on his bracelet and caught two crumpled bills in the air. He rushed off after the bum and found him drinking beer in the bar.

"Here! Take it!" Danilov cried.

"I've already sold it!" the bum said with a laugh, opening his left fist. In his palm Danilov saw a three-ruble note and a ruble.

"Who to?" Danilov was horrified.

"Who knows? A little guy in a rabbit-fur hat. He gave me four rubles right away. And a mug as a tip. And you were so cheap, hiding your money -- "

"Where did he go?"

"Wherever he went is where he went. What do I care? He can go to Africa -- I'm headed for the liquor store!"

Danilov rushed out into the street, first in one direction, then another -- there was no man in a rabbit hat. You can go off in a hundred directions from the Maryinsky baths! The man who bought it was probably on a bus or streetcar by this time. Danilov stopped in despair. And from around the brick corner of the baths poked out the smiling, vile face of the ambitious chess player Valentin Sergeyevich. He showed Danilov his red tongue and disappeared.

"So that's it!" thought Danilov. "They're playing games with me. And they're being stupid about it, and they still managed to make a fool out of me. And now I just have to take it. They're waiting for me to respond. Control yourself, Danilov, take it. As a friend, I'm asking you. To get caught red-handed, even over a trifle -- four rubles -- brings them great amusement. And it's not so bad that they're getting a good laugh -- let them -- but that I've betrayed my principles because I'm so impatient. That does it. The viola must cease to exist for me. There is no Albani. There never was and there never will be..."

Still, Danilov decided it wouldn't hurt to drop by the police and tell them about the bum and the buyer in the rabbit hat. What if the Ostankino police turned out to be more powerful and more efficient than the messenger Valentin Sergeyevich?

That night they played Swan Lake. Danilov thought about Natasha. There were moments when his soul merged so completely with Peter Ilych's music that Danilov saw himself as Prince Siegfried, and Natasha as the poor enchanted swan. Danilov wanted to go down to the rushes by the water and shatter the evil spell. When the violas, in accordance with the wishes of Peter Ilych, were silent in the score, Danilov pulled out the scrap of paper with Natasha's phone number from his pocket and stared at it. The evil spirit was crushed, falling to the floor with the swan feathers, to be swept up in the intermission.

The music became luminous with the finale. Then the electric lights came on, too. The conductor, who had a good ear, came over to Danilov backstage and said, "Thank you!" Danilov was surprised and embarrassed. He knew that he had played well, but he hadn't expected the conductor's approval. "Your instrument was an adornment to our orchestra today," the conductor added, as he bowed and went off down the hall. "He probably thinks that I've got the Albani," it occurred to Danilov.

The appearance of the viola at the steam bath had put everything in its place. They would strike at whatever Danilov cherished. For now they were satisfied with the viola, but if they discovered a person he cared for, they would crush that person just for the fun of it. He did not have the right to risk Natasha's future, not to mention her life. He had already been informed of Time X: It had not occurred yet, but somewhere it had been calculated precisely down to the microsecond and could be announced to him at any moment. His fate had been decided. Why should he bother Natasha now and pierce her soul, since tomorrow he would become no one, lose his essence -- he might not even be transformed into other matter! So be it, that was his life. The important thing was to keep Natasha from suffering because he was in love with her; his earthly love must not destroy her.

In the streetcar Danilov tore up the paper with Natasha's phone number and stuffed the pieces into the ticket box. But this brought no relief -- he had memorized the number.

Usually after Swan Lake Danilov felt so calm and radiant that he fell asleep quickly. But tonight he kept tossing and turned. It was not Natasha who worried him; he had settled that. Danilov took a sleeping pill, but it didn't help. Something outside him was counteracting the effects of the barbiturates. And then the link with the letter S on his bracelet moved forward on its own, pushing Danilov into the demon state. "That's it! They're summoning me! Now they're going to announce Time X!" thought Danilov, even though he knew that Time X was not announced in this way. Danilov became aware of a delicate signal: "Accept a dispatch!" The dispatch was brief. Danilov deciphered it immediately and learned that Karmadon, a classmate of Danilov's from the lyceum, was coming to Earth for a two-week holiday on a bonus trip from the Chancery of Pleasures. Danilov learned from the dispatch that during the past few years Karmadon had led a brilliant operation in the constellation Bootes and was now being rewarded with a vacation on Earth. Danilov was required to arrange his accommodations and amusements. "Don't they know that I've been given Time X?" thought Danilov. "Well, if they don't know, let them worry about it!"

Danilov returned himself to human state and quickly fell asleep. As he nodded off, he recalled Misha Korenev's words, "Remember! He who is afraid is imperfect in love!"

7

At half past five in the morning the ringing telephone awoke Danilov. "Could it be Natasha?!" Danilov leapt out of bed. It was his ex-wife, Klavdia Petrovna.

"Listen, Danilov," she said, "I'm going to marry Professor Voinov..."

"So I heard," Danilov said, suppressing a yawn. "The specialist in Turkish economics ... Congratulations ..."

"Today's a very important day for me; my trial period with the professor is beginning. You've got to help me get rid of my anxiety," Klavdia said with determination.

"What anxiety?" Danilov asked.

"Listen, you've got to relieve me of my mundane duties, both domestic and official. My hands cannot be tied, you know yourself how difficult it will be for me at first with a man as serious as Voinov."

"What does that have to do with me?" Danilov howled in a tenor voice. "We're legally divorced!"

"Really, Danilov, darling, you're intolerable. You promised to be my friend... Pretty please! Come on, Danilov!"

"I beg you -- " Danilov began, but Klavdia interrupted in a voice that called to mind the pathetic, fluttering wings of the dying swan in the Saint-Saлns-Plisetskaya version:

"If you don't help me, I'll hang myself, you know me -- "

"All right," Danilov said with a sigh. "But only for a week."

Klavdia promptly dictated a list of her anxieties to Danilov. There were sixteen points. Danilov wrote them down and thought how once again he wouldn't be able to get his blue trousers from the cleaners. In addition he had to be constantly on the alert for some special jolts from external forces, a movement of the demonic link on his bracelet, or, at the very least, some totally extraordinary, scandalous sign announcing the arrival of Karmadon. But no, Karmadon did not appear. "Too bad," thought Danilov. Karmadon would definitely have spared him Klavdia Petrovna's anxieties. Maybe Karmadon would have even zapped her to ashes in a fit of anger. But apparently Kardamon's holidays were being delayed, even though they were a reward.

Danilov had no desire to enter into negotiations with unearthly powers -- that is, to remind them of his existence -- but he did. In connection with Karmadon's arrival, he demanded from the Chancery of Pleasures a Geiger-counter-like indicator to monitor instantly the presence of demonic forces in the immediate vicinity. "In order to more efficiently accompany Karmadon in space," Danilov explained. "That's one I'll never see!" he thought, screwing up his eyes. But they sent the indicator immediately. "Then they really don't know a thing about Time X?" Danilov was astonished. The indicator resembled a ball-point pen, and the presence of demonic forces made the tip glow, revealing a Rubensian nude in red boots. Danilov said to himself: "All right, Valentin Sergeyevich, now you better watch out!"

The next morning, following Klavdia Petrovna's list, Danilov was supposed to go to Nastasyinsky Alley, house number 8. On a piece of paper redolent of nail polish was written in a graceful and lazy hand: "Drop by and get a number in line. Futecons. Confutes." Danilov easily found the imposing house, which had once upon a time been a rental building. Even though he took the stairs two at a time, it still was a long climb to the second floor; he had forgotten about old staircases -- in his new co-op he would have been on the roof by now. According to the instructions on the paper, Danilov rang the bell in apartment three. A brass plate on the door said: Yuri Rostovtsov, Graduate of Two Institutes and below in tiny print: (One of Them a University). The door was ajar, and a tall man who was around thirty-five and wearing glasses, looked out. He had the face of a happy, well-fed child, and regarded Danilov with curiosity, and also with doubt, as if he expected something. Or some word, like a password.

"Futecons," Danilov said just in case.

"Confutes," Rostovtsov (it was in fact he) said and nodded. He flung the door open and smiled.

No matter how intent Danilov was on the business at hand, he could not help but note the amazing charm of the ruddy apartment owner. "You'd never have to worry with someone like him," thought Danilov. "No adventure is too scary with someone like him, you won't get beaten up in a beer line, and if he asks for a clean tablecloth in a restaurant, the waitress won't throw the salad bowl at someone like him..." Actually, Danilov was no less charming. But was Danilov always so full of self-confidence? Alas, not always.

"I'm here to get a place in line," Danilov said.

"This way, please," Rostovtsov beckoned, shutting the door, and then vanishing into a side room. In his hand Danilov had caught a glimpse of an authentic Fedorov pipe.

The entry hall of the apartment was enormous -- in Danilov's building they would have turned it into a bowling alley, or simply fenced it in on all sides with boards and plywood.

At the moment the room -- which incidentally held a baby carriage, a coat rack, bicycles, and a nickel-plated tub hanging from a sturdy nail -- was crowded with dozens of people. The lights were on and Danilov could see that the group was exemplary. Everyone was exceptionally proper, did not smoke -- which was to be expected in a line -- and spoke in low voices. There were almost no young people, especially long-haired ones; most of the people waiting were middle-aged. Here were people in their thirties and forties, in their prime. Yuri Rostovtsov, the host, and graduate of two institutions, was probably the poorest and least respectable of the lot, even though he did own a Fedorov pipe. The women were magnificent -- colorful and expensively dressed -- and Danilov realized that his ex-wife, Klavdia Petrovna, would not have fit in badly here either. Danilov recalled that on the way to the house, in the alley and on Chekhov Street, he had seen many private cars, primarily Volgas and even a few astonishing Opels and Peugeots with Moscow plates. These people had come in those cars.

"Danilov, you're here, too?"

Danilov turned. Kudasov stood before him.

"I'm not here by myself," Danilov said.

"What's your number?" Kudasov asked.

"I don't have one..."

"I mean the person for whom you're here -- if it's not a secret..."

"Let me look," Danilov said. "I have the paper somewhere here ... two hundred seventeen, I guess..."

"I'm a bit ahead of you," Kudasov said. "You're probably here for Klavdia Petrovna?"

"Yes."

"Write the number on your hand in ink."

"Why on my hand?"

"Why... to make sure... everyone here does it... Here, use my pen..."

Danilov wrote "217" on his hand unwillingly, returned the pen with thanks, and said: "I haven't written a number on my hand in a long time."

"You have to ... the kind of people you get here ..."

It was stuffy and Danilov loosened his coat.

"So, you have your own pen!" Kudasov said, espying the indicator previously described.

"It doesn't write," Danilov said hurriedly.

"Swedish?"

"Swedish," Danilov agreed.

"Could I take a look?"

"Yes, please ..." Danilov said plaintively.

He handed Kudasov the pen, while worrying that it might light up with the naked Rubensian woman in red boots. But the woman didn't light up: There was nothing demonic in Rostovtsov's apartment.

"They really know how to make things," Kudasov said, returning the indicator.

"They certainly do," said Danilov with a sigh.

"But I see it's a cheap pen..."

"It's not expensive..."

"Still, they sure know how ..."

Knowing Kudasov, Danilov sensed that very soon Kudasov would put him in the position of having to give him the inexpensive Swedish pen. At first Kudasov would pretend not to want it... "Oh, no you don't -- nothing for you!" thought Danilov.

But the indicator was saved when the door to one of the rooms opened, and people -- obviously the ones everyone was waiting for -- entered quickly. They were extremely preoccupied and important. They did not look at anyone, did not greet anyone. They were hurrying somewhere, to another room, as if in anticipation of great events, from a scheduled meeting to an unscheduled one. Everyone moved, gladly making room, pushing and flattening themselves out of the way, and yet they themselves were not ordinary folk.

The ladies stood on tiptoe to see who was coming. At the head of the procession Danilov saw a small man with a black beard. Agile and determined, he was the one setting the pace and the tone. It was the famous sociologist Dr. Oblakov, Ph.D. Danilov had met him somewhere once. Danilov also saw among them Galkin, a store director.

A lady in a wig was so excited she turned to Kudasov and Danilov. "Who's that one, there, in the gray suit?"

"The international affairs commentator, from TV," Kudasov said with a pout. "He's squirmed into here, too!"

The important people passed by and shut the door behind them. The entry room instantly grew noisy. The line was about to move.

"Number one!" The call was firm and clear.

And the line moved one by one into the room with the commission or whatever it was called. People came out quickly, obviously satisfied, and went to the door. Still, the line moved along slowly. Danilov had unbuttoned his coat completely by now, and on the curving, upturned corner of the tub he hung his fuzzy nutria hat, which Muravlyov had bought for him miraculously in some suburban fur salon for twenty rubles. Danilov calculated the speed of the line and saw that he would be here for an hour and a half. "Okay, Klavdia," he muttered to Professor Voinov's girlfriend. But then again, it was his own fault!

Kudasov came through, smiling and stuffing his wallet into a secret pocket of his jacket. Fifteen minutes later they called number 217. Danilov was about to go when he remembered his nutria hat, now hanging far away from him. He didn't want to lose it. Just then the ruddy Rostovtsov came through the entrance, frying pan in hand, probably on his way to the kitchen. Danilov noted that while he was charming, he was essentially a rogue.

"Number two hundred seventeen!" they said again.

"Oh, all right," Danilov thought. "It's a hat, not a viola, and there are no demonic forces here..." He went into a large room, apparently the dining room.

"Number two-seventeen?"

"Yes," Danilov said with a smile. "Two-seventeen."

And he showed his hand with the inked numbers.

The interrogator was not Oblakov, sociologist and Ph.D., even though it was clear that he was in charge, but a large, skewbald man who sat three seats to Oblakov's left. He had fluffy sideburns and moustache and held a pen. In front of him lay a green notebook, either a register or a logbook.

Actually the nine people sitting around the empty dining-room table, covered by an Indian oilcloth with shish kebab motifs, resembled an admissions committee, even though Danilov couldn't imagine a meeting of an admissions committee in a room with a television set, aged side tables with balusters, a walnut cheval glass, a marble washstand, and German tapestries -- on which geese flew and hares leaped near Gretchen (probably the miller's daughter), as she was bending over a brook. Despite all this, the people at the table seemed so important and grand to Danilov that he immediately sensed the distance between him and them.

"Family name?" asked the skewbald man.

"Danilov," he answered.

"We don't have anyone by that name," the skewbald man said.

"I'm here for Klavdia Petrovna Soboleva," Danilov said.

"Why did she entrust this to you?"

"I'm her former husband," Danilov said.

The skewbald man looked at Oblakov questioningly. The other nodded and said quickly: "Former husbands can be trusted."

"Still, please show us some identification," the skewbald man demanded.

He studied Danilov's theater ID and his passport, and he wrote down the data from the passport -- serial number, which police station issued it and when -- in the green notebook.

"All right."

"May I leave now?" Danilov asked.

"What about the dues?"

"What dues?"

"Fifteen rubles."

"She didn't say anything to me about it," Danilov said. "I don't have fifteen rubles on me... She just asked me to take her place in line and that was it..."

"She knew very well about the fifteen rubles," a man wearing beautiful glasses announced grimly. Kudasov had claimed the man was an international expert, and he clearly did not like Danilov.

"Just borrow fifteen rubles," Oblakov said benevolently. "Surely you have friends in line."

At that moment store director Galkin began a close examination of lovely Gretchen's hares.

"I don't know anyone here," said Danilov, glad that Galkin had turned away.

"Well then ..." Oblakov spread his hands in dismay.

"Then we will have to put Klavdia Petrovna Soboleva," the skewbald man said sternly, "at the end of the line. She will receive a new number upon paying her dues."

"Why be like that?" Danilov was stunned. "She'll drop by today and pay..."

"The rules of the line are serious and inviolate, we have made no exceptions and do not intend to make any."

"And in general," the international expert in beautiful glasses said, without looking at Danilov, "I feel that there is no need for us to enter into discussions with chance visitors."

"Serious people," thought Danilov.

His nutria hat still hung safely on the upturned corner of the nickel-plated tub, and Danilov took it. "The hat is safe," he thought, touched. "These are truly serious people. You can deal with people like this."

And ruddy Rostovtsov, graduate of two institutes, appeared in the entrance once again, smoke rising from his Fedorov pipe, and a green parrot on his shoulder. "Oh, definitely a villain," decided Danilov.

Once outside, Danilov thought: "Well, this will be a lesson to Klavdia not to be so stingy!" Still, he felt injured, even angry, as if they had moved him instead of Klavdia to the end of the line.

He called Klavdia from a phone booth.

"Danilov, darling!" Klavdia purred into the receiver like a gurgling brook. "Did you show up?!"

"I showed up -- " Danilov began.

"Terrific! I always knew that you were a marvelous, sweet man. Listen, yesterday I was knitting wool socks for Professor Voinov, you know how hard that is for me, and I managed to do a heel! And managed to keep up a cultured conversation with him ... And in the morning -- just imagine, he likes carrot jelly and bouillon with meat balls -- I cooked it all!"

"She never knitted me a pair of socks," thought Danilov and said grimly: "Fire me. I'm not interested in heels, or meatballs, or Professor Voinov, nor your probationary work experience under him!"

"Oh, Danilov ..."

"I showed up, all right, but they didn't count you, and they put you at the end of the line."

"I knew it! I just knew it! You were too cheap?"

"You shouldn't have put me in that ridiculous position. You could have warned me about the payment and given me the money."

"What a nuisance! You're absolutely heartless! Why couldn't you have paid or borrowed it from someone?"

"Thanks for the advice."

"What am I supposed to do now?"

"I don't know... And who are these futecons? These confutes?"

"Quiet, quiet... it's a secret... This is not for the telephone. Where are you?"

"On Gorky. I'm about to go into the grocery store."

"All right, I'll be there in twenty minutes!"

"Just what I need!" thought Danilov, a little later as he stood in the coffee bar at the grocery store and chewed a sandwich with choice sausage that was so greasy it could have been used to fry other things. It was all so absurd! Here was Danilov himself on the brink of the abyss; whirlwinds of inner music and music he had yet to conquer tormented him; Natasha, despite all his desperate attempts at self-control, would not budge from his heart and his soul; the viola might be gone for good, which drove him to despair. And still he was bothering with this nonsense, as if he were once again bound to this woman who belonged to someone else, this empty and crazed female who was no one to him. And as far as she was concerned he was nothing but the means to an end -- a gaff to a deckhand or a can of worms to a fisherman on the Neva River. "No! I'm getting up and leaving!" Danilov told himself. But just then Klavdia, as beautiful as a cookie with chocolate and cinnamon, appeared. She was wearing a fox coat and a red fox hat.

"As for Voinov," she said, "don't worry. Everything's all right there, knock on wood..."

"I'm not worrying..."

"Now, about the line ... How could you? ... You didn't have fifteen rubles?"

"I didn't," Danilov said. "For a change."

"Well, all right," Klavdia said. "It's my fault. But you understand -- not a word about the line to anyone. It's an experiment... And it can be jinxed, understand?"

"No," admitted Danilov.

"You're so ... Remember those poor, hungry, unknown actors who spent nights and mornings rehearsing, shouting, arguing? They believed, and suddenly, bang! -- Live Forever! The Sovremennik Theater! Sold out! Their own cafe! And now even the Moscow Art Theater has taken them to their bosom! That's what our group is like. In their off-hours, civic-minded -- "

"Wait a minute -- what about the fifteen rubles? That's private funding -- "

"Oh, pooh! But at least they're not poor or unknown. On the contrary! They are all people with futures, and that means there's a guarantee for us..."

"Who are they? Who are these confutes?"

"Futecons," Klavdia corrected him. The Scientific Initiative Group Concerned for the Future. Rostovtsov's the one who came up with futecons."

Here she looked around and began speaking in a terrifying whisper. That is, not really terrifying, more ominous. No, wrong again. Klavdia Petrovna was incapable of speaking terrifyingly or ominously. She spoke in a rustling, mysterious whisper. Klavdia Petrovna had unfastened the brass buckles of her fox coat, and on her tender neck Japanese cultured pearls glimmered with a strange light. The Scientific Initiative Group Concerned for the Future, Danilov learned, was filled with brilliant minds. People in today's key professions. Actually, the cyberneticists from the Luzhkov Institute were needed only for background work, related to calculations, accounts, and other math. Higher and lower. Otherwise the nucleus of the group consisted of sociologists headed by the famous Oblakov, futurologists, lawyers, psychologists, philosophers, two private psychoanalysts, specialists in economics and international issues, and God knows who else, even a writer. In secondary roles, for consultations and practical actions, the group planned to use -- and was already using! -- people from all walks of life: superintendents, propagandists, railroad conductors, physicians, hunters, dog breeders, hairdressers, chiropodists, horologists, plastic surgeons, technical-school teachers, police-sketch artists, detectives, chairmen of local Party committees, you name it, as long as these people were serious and important, and neither ill nor old, preferably under forty, so they could last at least two more decades at their jobs.

"Well, all right," Danilov said. "But what's it to you?"

With her delicate, slightly plump fingers that bore two lovely rings -- one a carnelian, the other a diamond -- Klavdia Petrovna brought her Winston over to a clean plate and lightly flicked the ashes onto the porcelain.

"It's a complicated question," she said. "It's a philosophical one. It's impossible to put it into words, it calls for struggle. Yes, struggle... A special intuition is needed. You are not capable of understanding..."

"But nevertheless?" Danilov said. "What if I do understand?"

"Every decent, self-respecting person," Klavdia Petrovna said, "wishes to live well and even better than well. And wishes to hold a position that suits him -- say, to move from last place to first. Well, not first, but say to eighth. What a difference that makes!"

"And with me you were in last?"

"Not the very last... but, Volodenka, alas, close to last... Don't misunderstand ... I'm satisfied with my present position. And if everything works out with Voinov, I'll be completely happy... but only for a while... After all, you have to live for your passions!"

"Passions?" asked Danilov.

"Yes," said Klavdia Petrovna, "passions. You live for your feelings, but I need passions. I didn't invent it, it's the fashion lately."

"I know you didn't invent it -- "

"And now I have everything, or will have, with Voinov. I'm an ordinary woman, but I'm worth something. I'm in my prime. And I'm beautiful. I am beautiful, aren't I, Danilov?"

"You're beautiful," Danilov agreed.

"What does a woman want? Fame? Success in public life? I can live without them. I'm emancipated as it is. I certainly don't need professional fame, it's not for me. I look at a job as liberation from housework, which is demeaning for women; it makes them dull -- take a look at your friend, the wife of Muravlyov. She's mired in a lack of spirituality! All you can see sticking out is a braid. And it's not even dyed, poor thing... So let's forget fame and glory. That leaves love. And my first rule here is not to be unhappy in love. Nor make the man unhappy. Or the men."

"Naturally, you're not thinking about men like me," Danilov said.

"Judge for yourself, Volodenka, you are unstable and frivolous. You could interest an inexperienced, naive girl with a vivid imagination and without a decent wardrobe, but as for a woman with a forceful and businesslike nature, you are incapable of making her happy... Take those fifteen rubles, for instance... even though I have no regrets about the past and I'm grateful to you for the apartment... but Professor Voinov is a powerful no-nonsense man, while you, Danilov, are an orchestra player. Voinov will give me everything... I mean, I couid achieve it all without him, but when Voinov takes me by the arm, I become a different person... We sit in different seats ... and they don't make us change to worse ones. And then, of course, we'll have to live abroad. Voinov's already agreed to take me for at least three years... He needs it for his work. Naturally, not to Turkey ... What does old Turkey have? ... All they do, those Turks, is drink coffee all day in their harems ... There are other countries, after all -- Italy, France, even England. Voinov can look at Turkish problems from there."

"He could," Danilov said with a nod.

"But I want to tell you about something. About the fute-cons. I'm completely happy now. But what about ten years from now? Or twenty? Or thirty? What will I need then? Now do you understand why I signed up? And not in just one place, but in three?"

"The futecons are selling tomorrow, is that it?"

"They're not selling! How could they sell it? You're a strange man, Danilov! They're not even predicting tomorrow. They're just doing everything scientifically. Did you know that now demographers can tell you exactly how many children a woman should have in 1980, 1990, in the year 2000, so that humanity can keep its head count in line, excuse the expression? Or take forest rangers. They can tell you how many trees have to be planted in five, ten, twenty years, so that the forests in the next century will be perfect... And the futurologists -- they know everything ahead of time, they have determined for certain the movement of every dust mote in history -- and even in percentages, and the germination of 'every blade of grass in the field...' "

"And the underwater movements of every creature in the sea?"

"I don't know about them ... but we do have a man from the Ocean Company ... he'll deal with saltwater fish, if necessary... I'm just giving you the basics... Understand?"

"Uh-huh," Danilov said with a nod.

"And we futecons are no slouches, either. The most important members of the group are systems analysts. Oblakov is their god. They can pick up the tiny movements of a person's soul that would trip up any computer. When it's my turn, they'll X-ray me with their minds and feelings and with medical equipment, picturing me in 1980, 1990, and in the year 2000, and they'll tell me what I will need and what I should do -- both now and then."

"Do they charge fifteen rubles often?"

"Not infrequently ... according to their charts ... so that we are aware of our responsibility... And why begrudge them small change now? It's better than overpaying later."

"For what?"

"What do you mean, for what?" Klavdia Petrovna asked in surprise.

"All right," Danilov said. "Fine. Let's say you get information. For three decades. But you'll wear yourself out with the forecasts of these futecons."

"Not me! Others -- yes!"

"Luckily," Danilov said, "I won't be of any use to you in your future concerns..."

"Who knows? ..."

"Oh, no, no, not under any circumstances," Danilov said horrified. "I'll be on duty this week, as promised, and that's it..."

"Big deal, fifteen rubles!" Klavdia Petrovna said. "A lot of people in the line aren't there for themselves, but for their children. Even though not all of them have children. How can you economize on your children? You'll pay three times as much for tutoring later!"

"They're taking care of their children's higher education?"

"Some are there for higher education. Others for the mandatory middle education. Say, to take a particular case, they want to find out -- and they're right to do so -- which schools specializing in which language they should be getting their kids into ten years from now. Maybe the most worthwhile will be Icelandic then. Or Jamaican."

"Listen, what if ten years from now it's fashionable to have three children?" Danilov asked. "What will you do -- have them?"

"Of course," Klavdia Petrovna said.

"And in the meantime you'll wait?"

"I am waiting, you know that..."

"Well, these are all details..."

"Details," Klavdia Petrovna agreed. "For me. I will know the most important thing, and the details will be revealed on their own. But many are standing in the line just for the details. Some women are so stupid. And the men are worse. If you're paying fifteen rubles, then ... But they ... some people think that by way of the line they can get fur coats and deerskin caps made at cost... They expect air-sole shoes... One guy there is interested in a magic crystal ball."

"And Kudasov, what does he want?"

"I don't know. He probably needs some sort of prognosis.

I'm going to find out a few things for Voinov, too ... if they'll prognosticate him for me."

"Or futurize him."

"Or futurize ... Maybe Kudasov's worried about his work.... Many come with work problems..."

"Well, say you get your prognosis. Then what?"

"What! Besides the systems analysts, the group has constructivists. You know Galkin, the store director. Say I learn that in 1996 I'll need a walrus-skin coat -- I'll sign up on his list immediately..."

"For ten years in the future?"

"Yes! And I'll have the thing on time, early even. The constructivists are constructivists because they will solve all the problems recognized by the analysts in a constructive way.... Whichever constructivists you'll need -- then you'll get in the right line... One will go to a cosmetologist, another to a co-op board... But these are details..."

"What's the important part?"

"That's a secret. But I" -- the smile flew from Klavdia's mother-of-pearl lips -- "I already know a few things... That is -- I have some information... I don't know everything, but I can make a good guess... I won't tell you how I found out or through whom... but believe me, I have a wild idea...."

"Wild enough?"

"Of course it's wild enough."

"Do you need three cards?"

"Oh, Danilov!" Klavdia's gentle hand touched his cheek, warming up the past. "If only you were Saint-Germain ... No, I'll handle this myself!"

"But you needed me for something, if you're telling me all this."

"I don't know what for myself ... but at least you'll help me get my lost number back... You'll tell them it was your fault with the fifteen rubles... You misappropriated my money..."

"What do you need the number for, if you're going to learn it all anyway?"

"I have to get an official certificate. And then, it's interesting in the line. Conversations ... people ... you make useful contacts... You and I will go and reestablish my place..."

"But -- "

"No! ... If it's your fault ... if you were too cheap ... And then, what if I let you in on my wild idea, hmm?"

A strange, disreputable whistle cut through the air. Cars on Gorky Street shuddered and came to a halt. Sandwiches and Hungarian puff pastries hopped in the air and fell to the floor from the counter. "Could it be Karmadon?" thought Danilov. But the cars drove on, the waitress picked up the sausage slices and put them back on the bread, the pastry and sandwiches were returned to the counter, and Klavdia, her mother-of-pearl lips parted, stood and looked greedily at the street.

Danilov's eyes followed hers, and Danilov saw ruddy Rostov-tsov with the Fedorov pipe between his teeth stroll casually past the store opposite.

Klavdia buttoned her coat decisively and headed for the door, as she said to Danilov: "I'll call you... Keep following my list.... Excuse me...." And she was gone.

8

Danilov went home to get his instrument for the theater. But the elevator operator-cum-doorwoman told Danilov that some young man was waiting for him, but that she wouldn't let him up either by elevator or the stairs, because he looked suspicious and was shabbily dressed.

In the meantime, the suspicious-looking man had gotten up from his seat on the stairs and took a step in Danilov's direction. A meek, clumsy step, and the man lurched as he took it. He was around twenty-seven, tall, thin, and cleanshaven. He held his gray cap in his hand. His coat was shabby and didn't look warm enough.

Pretending he was not in the lobby, Danilov opened his coat in order to look at the indicator. No, no sign. But mischievous Karmadon, Danilov's former classmate, was the type who could easily materialize with a gray cap in hand and in a different body. Or even as someone whose house had burned down and was clutching a baby.

"Vladimir Alekseyevich," the young man said, "I won't take more than a minute of your time. My name is Pereslegin, but that doesn't matter. I write music. I mean, I don't know what it is I write, but I would like to write music... I mean, it's all in vain... Understand me... you don't know me ... I graduated from the conservatory about ten years after you... I have an idea, I mean, not an idea, but a hope, a proposition for you ... I need to talk to you... I was at your concert at the research institute, I was there by chance...

I couldn't sleep for two nights afterward ... but I wouldn't dare speak to you until you've looked at this..."

From under his arm Pereslegin pulled out a folder that Danilov hadn't noticed before. It was brown, with brown ties, which untied by themselves, and Pereslegin proffered to Danilov a pile of sheet music.

"All right," Danilov said in bewilderment, "I'll look at it."

"Please be so kind," Pereslegin said. "If you find anything of the least bit of interest to you, send me a postcard. I've put one in, it's addressed. I don't have a telephone. If, however, when you've read the music, you hate it, just tear it up and throw it in the wastebasket..."

"If you have something to say to me," Danilov said, "why all these preliminary conditions?"

"No, no ... Just look at it first!"

And the door shut behind Pereslegin.

"He's not just suspicious," Polina Terentyevna, the doorkeeper said. "He's worse..."

"You think so?" Danilov asked.

"I don't think, I see," Polina Terentyevna said.

In the elevator Danilov took a look at the music. The title page said: "Pereslegin. Symphony Number 1." Danilov thought, "I won't look now, on the run, there'll be time later, when I can do it justice." He was pleased by the thought that at least one musician had liked his playing at the institute that night. Liked it? Probably. If he hadn't, Danilov thought, why would he have bothered finding out his address and risking his dignity and whatever else, knowing Polina Terentyevna? Danilov decided to wait a few days before looking at the music -- what if it was junk?! That would spoil Danilov's pleasure. So this is the kind of person who likes his playing!

"What a mess I'm in with that Klavdia!" thought Danilov as he entered his apartment. "Now she's opening her soul to me... She doubtless has me in mind for some role in her 'wild enough' idea ... a very minor role -- messenger or stooge -- but she has one for me... I have to get rid of her!"

And still Danilov was curious. "What could this marvelous idea be?" Klavdia trembled all over when she talked about it. She obviously would move the skyscrapers from the New Arbat if they got in the way of her idea. The woman was inexorable!

With his spare viola in hand, Danilov was heading for the door when the phone rang. Danilov picked up the receiver and heard Ekaterina Ivanovna.

"Volodya, you probably don't recognize me?" she said.

"Of course I do, Katenka," Danilov said happily. "How could I not recognize you?"

He was late already and now he would have to take a taxi. But he was truly happy to hear from Ekaterina Ivanovna.

Ekaterina Ivanovna was always fun to talk to, and besides, Danilov sensed immediately why she was calling. First they talked about this and that: about the Muravlyovs; about Ekaterina Ivanovna's son, Sasha, the martyr of art school -- yesterday he poured all the shampoo in the house plus the deodorant down the toilet to protest his heavy homework load; about Mikhail Antalyevich, Ekaterina Ivanovna's husband, being away on business, about how little time there was -- the exhibit of Zilberstein's collection was over and they had missed it. And then Ekaterina Ivanovna said, in a teasing tone:

"You were terrific at our institute, Volodenka, really terrific. Everyone asked me later how I came to know you..."

"No, really?" Danilov was embarrassed.

"And one of my friends was completely... you made quite an impression on her."

"Katya, I know whom you're talking about... And Natasha made quite an impression on me..."

Now Danilov did not know how to continue the conversation -- in the former bantering tone, or seriously. Just in case, he put the indicator by the phone. While talking to Ekaterina Ivanovna this seemed like a sleazy thing to do, but he had no right to risk Natasha's fate -- that messenger boy Valentin Sergeyevich and his mentors were capable of almost anything! But the Rubensian woman did not come alive.

"You know, Volodya," Ekaterina Ivanovna said, "perhaps I shouldn't be doing this, and maybe you'll think badly of me, but I decided to call you and tell you that things are not so good for Natasha now."

Ekaterina Ivanovna stopped talking, but Danilov said nothing.

"She's not ill," Ekaterina Ivanovna went on. "But I feel that it's a bad time for her. And I don't know how to help. Volodya, I realize this is stupid of me. And probably tactless. I don't have the right to get involved in anything like this ... but I couldn't control myself and here I am calling...."

"I understand, Katya," Danilov said. "What's the matter with Natasha?"

"She's just miserable," Ekaterina Ivanovna said. "And I have no idea why... She's proud, so she wouldn't say anything to me or to you. It's as if she's afraid of something, is in some danger..."

"My whole problem, Katya, is that I'm free only either early in the morning or after eleven at night..."

Ekaterina Ivanovna didn't have a reply. And Danilov was already cursing himself desperately: Right now, he should be forgetting about everything, the theater, his viola, music, forgetting about his own life and his own doom, forgetting, forgetting, forgetting -- he should be rushing to Natasha's side, and instead he was mumbling pathetic words into the phone. "What a bastard I am!" Danilov said to himself. But on the other hand, what could he say to Ekaterina Ivanovna at this point? No matter how miserable Natasha was today, Danilov would bring her much greater misery, disaster even, tomorrow. So what was he supposed to do? Reject Natasha, break off relations with her once and for all, tell Ekaterina Ivanovna firmly that it had nothing to do with him, he had lots of friends in the same boat? Was that it? He quickly tried to convince himself that his feelings for Natasha were a passing fancy, arising on the spur of the moment.

"Katya, I'll think of something," Danilov said.

He hung up and sat by the telephone. He ran his fingers through his beard. "No," thought Danilov, "I'm just fooling myself." His feelings for Natasha had not disappeared. On the contrary, they were even more apparent. His entire being yearned for Natasha. Now he knew that he would violate the rules of the agreement and that it would be noted. "Let it!" Danilov said with a shrug. He had no other options. He switched himself into the demon state and tuned himself onto Natasha's spiritual wavelength. He did not wish to enter Natasha's life as an invisible presence or even as a dust mote. That is, it did not even occur to him, for that would have been vile, like being a Peeping Tom. He longed to see her. But he could not. He stayed home by the telephone and turned on his cognition apparatus. Thus he could have viewed Natasha's entire life through and through, but that, too, would have been foul. He had no right to know Natasha's secrets unless she wanted him to. And he was terrified of learning Natasha's future. So Danilov plugged into the system only at selective points, in hopes of getting accurate information solely on his current concern. And he got it, not immediately, as he was supposed to, but some two minutes later. Danilov used the cognition apparatus rarely, and so while it hadn't exactly rusted, it needed a good lube job. And Danilov had even forgotten what oil to use in Earth conditions -- castor or rapeseed.

The information he obtained soothed him a bit. Valentin Sergeyevich and his commanders had not bothered Natasha yet -- either they had taken pity on her or they didn't know about her. The causes of Natasha's state today were internal, human, and Danilov did not try to delve into them.

Knowing this, Danilov berated himself in hindsight: How could he have violated the terms of the agreement while awaiting Time X?! Actually, he often berated himself in hindsight. Danilov sighed: Why regret it now? He had ascertained that for the moment there was no danger to Natasha from Valentin Sergeyevich. His enemies apparently did not set much store by his feelings for her (as opposed to those for his viola) and thought him fickle. Or they were waiting for him to become completely entrapped in those feelings and get himself in deeper. That meant that he and Natasha had time and they should use it. Danilov determined, "I'll come up with something, I'll get out of it somehow, and I won't let Natasha get hurt!" After the dispatch about Karmadon, Danilov had become a little cocky once more and walked around as if he were a kid with a balloon on a spring day. He hoped that his friendship with Karmadon would revoke Time X completely. And even without Karmadon, Danilov decided, he would certainly come up with a way out of this horrible blind alley. Soon he would sit down and think about it.

But time was passing and he would be late for the theater if he tried human means to get a taxi. "So what! If I'm breaking the contract, I might as well break it!" Danilov said cavalierly, with a surge of bravado. A taxi driver rang his doorbell immediately and asked if he had ordered a car from garage number three.

"Yes, I did," Danilov said dryly.

When he got home, Danilov was in the mood to call Natasha, despite the late hour. But as he sat down by the telephone, he got nervous and could not pick up the receiver. There was a knock. A metal object was being used to bang on the door. Danilov opened the door, but left it on the chain. He saw a fellow in a crumpled quilted jacket with a small case in his right hand and a wrench in his left.

"Who do you want?" Danilov asked.

"Moscow Gas," the fellow said in a voice that sounded as if he had a cold.

9

"Why so late?" Danilov asked. "And why my apartment?"

"We're doing all of them," the guy from MOSGAS said. "We have to do preventive maintenance."

Danilov took the chain off the door and opened it. He was curious to see what the man would do. And then again, he really might be from the gas company. He might have started out in the morning and finally arrived here. Danilov had learned the hard way when it came to dealing with municipal services, and so he was cordial.

"This way," Danilov said, showing the man into the kitchen. "I've been meaning to call you for a long time. Two of the switches are hard to turn and the gas hardly comes out."

Once in the kitchen, the gas man did not approach the stove but sank wearily onto a Yugoslav stool and yawned.

"Here, take a look," said Danilov, twisting the switches. "Look how hard it is. And then -- could you change this orange stove switch to an ordinary white one, it's really ugly ... I'll pay you..."

"What am I going to replace it with -- a wrench?"

"You must have spare parts in your case?"

"Can't you even take a joke!" the gas man said with no more symptoms of a cold in his voice. "You don't even recognize your own!"

Danilov took a closer look at the man.

"Karmadon!"

Danilov threw himself at Karmadon and they embraced. Back at the lyceum, Danilov and Karmadon had not been particularly good friends -- Danilov had come from an unimpressive background, while Karmadon and his brother, on the contrary, were brilliantly connected. But Danilov had a reputation among the demonic Golden Youth as being far more popular -- in fact, a remarkable wastrel -- and both Karmadon and his brother, New Margarit, regarded him as Saturn's rings might regard Saturn. At every exam at school they copied his horoscopes with adoring eyes. Anyone else in Danilov's place would have regarded Karmadon as an errand boy in his retinue, but Danilov had treated everyone equally and generously, not lording it over anyone. Except maybe the squealers. Now Danilov was sincerely pleased to see his lyceum buddy, even though he had lived the past twenty years without any particular need to do so.

Karmadon took off his filthy hat and greasy jacket, straightened up and seemed to grow taller. His face changed, and he looked more like himself. Danilov took a good look at him and no matter how hard he tried, he could not restrain a smile.

"What's the matter?" Karmadon asked. "I'm not dressed right?"

"You'd stand out in the street, I'd say..."

"That's the last thing I need," Karmadon said.

The last time Karmadon had been on Earth and in Moscow was 1954, and now he reminded Danilov of the customers of that cocktail hall of blessed memory on Gorky Street, long ago turned into an ice cream parlor: Karmadon had a brilliantined and sprayed pompadour, a speckled jacket with padded shoulders, a tie with a decadent pink monkey, skin-tight slacks, and shoes with a bizarre, homemade sole -- orange, wim heavy treads. But Kardamon's face was no longer young.

"Now people dress differently," Danilov explained. "I'm no fashion plate, but you can use my clothes."

"Show me what they're wearing," Karmadon said.

Danilov went to his room to look for magazines. He checked the bar and found the cognac bottle was almost empty. He was upset until he remembered that he had the right to switch into demon state and use his expense account for entertainment! Karmadon sluggishly leafed through some magazines and immediately reappeared with a mustache and thick shoulder-length curls, a suede jacket, and velvet pants with a remarkable belt. But he did not seem to be pleased with his new look. He yawned again.

"What are we doing in my kitchen?" Danilov cried. "Let's go into the living room. Or wherever you want. I'll get you anything you want to eat or drink. You name it! Are you interested in our exotica?"

"I don't need much," Karmadon said. "And let's not go anywhere. Let's stay here."

Karmadon's frame of mind surprised and disappointed Danilov. Danilov wouldn't have minded a good meal, with some Armenian cognac; however, he said nothing to his guest as the kitchen table was covered with a botde of Northern Lights Liqueur -- merely colored glycerin water and sugar, Danilov suspected; a burned, dried-up brisket from some railroad station snack bar; and two portions of sprats on saucers painted with locomotives, apparently from the same snack bar. The only thing that pleased Danilov were the bottles of Karmadon mineral water. His guest's father had taken back to the Nine Layers wonderful memories of that temperate resort Karmadon, in Ossetia, in the mountains. Perhaps the father used to fly over, enjoying the views of the Caucasus, or perhaps he had bathed in the playful bubbles of warm springs, where he washed off earthly diseases, or perhaps he had frolicked with some mountain beauty; anyway, in memory of those snows and mineral waters he had named his infant son Karmadon.

"I'm not hungry or thirsty," said Karmadon. "I don't even remember your delicacies very well. The only thing I've consumed in the past few years is molybdenum. Please have whatever you want. Don't mind me..."

Danilov became aware of a glass of cognac in his hand and on the table in front of him was a plate of chicken tabaka from the Aragvi Restaurant.

"I'm tired," Karmadon said. "I don't have the strength for a talk with you. I've been sitting in offices, writing reports on my work, then waiting for my leave papers. I just grit my teeth -- you know our bureaucrats."

"What don't you take a bath?" Danilov suggested.

"I think I will," said Karmadon as he downed his Northern Lights straight from the botde and brought a too long dead sprat to his lips.

The water ran in the bathroom. Danilov finished off the chicken tabaka and was tackling a saddle of lamb, which he had summoned from Sofia -- the city, not the restaurant on Mayakovsky Square, where even Danilov's will could not create a saddle of lamb out of stewed beef or rabbit. For the entire week Danilov had eaten nothing but pastry and sandwiches, and now he was squandering the entertainment expenses.

It grew quiet in the bathroom. Danilov worried that Karmadon might flood the downstairs apartment. He was perfectly capable of making the bath deeper by a mile or two or as much as he wanted and then playing around in its watery depths, while the residents downstairs ran around with rags and buckets.

"Karmadon!" Danilov called.

Karmadon did not reply.

"I hope he hasn't drowned," Danilov thought in fright. "Karmadon!"

"Huh?" came a voice from the bathroom. "Oh ... sorry ... I dozed off... What's up?"

"I, uh ... shall I scrub your back?"

"All right," Karmadon replied wanly.

"He's so changed," Danilov thought. "He was always so energetic and carefree, a real live wire, and now ..."

Only Karmadon's head showed above the water, and after soaping up a stiff brush, Danilov asked Karmadon to raise himself up. Karmadon did so with difficulty, and Danilov was taken aback by his body. As Danilov learned at school, Karmadon, like any demon, was merely a particular spiritual expression of matter and could take on any form that corresponded to his wishes or circumstances. Thus he could look like bird droppings, or a trouser button, or a chipmunk, or even a dot or a trajectory or nothing at all. Out of habit and to facilitate socializing, demons in their circle preferred to place themselves inside human bodies. And naturally on Earth Karmadon had to resemble a human. And right now he did have basically a human body, down to the tattoo on his right shoulder, which read "Moderation in All Things." But here and there, in the most unexpected places, extruded metallic things, or maybe they weren't metallic. Danilov saw objects on Karmadon's body: Some of them were inanimate; others, with feelers and suction cups, moved, jerked, turned blue, and seemed to gasp. A strange bolt, like a broken sword, stuck out from Karmadon's rib, and it swayed, emitting a high whine. Danilov asked: "What's the matter with you? I won't disturb that with a sponge."

"What?" Karmadon said and looked at himself. A twinge of dismay crossed his face and he shook his head. "That again ... I can't get rid of all traces of Bootes... I nod off, and it comes back!"

He swallowed something white, shuddered, grimaced as if he were in pain, and became fully human again. The water gushed up from the tub, and when the spouts fell, it was dark blue.

At last Karmadon, pink and quiet, sat in a bathrobe in the kitchen. He drank the mineral water so beloved by his father. Danilov munched salted almonds and did not ask any questions. Karmadon was mostly silent, but he spoke occasionally -- always about the work conditions in the constellation Bootes.

Karmadon had been sent to the planet Beta-Mol, or as they called it in their reports, Sleepy Mole. A bit larger than Earth in size, the planet was called Glira by its inhabitants and was exclusively made of molybdenum. Even its spiritual values were molybdenum, and that went without saying for its material ones. Karmadon could not explain to Danilov why, and Danilov really couldn't bother his head over it anyway, but all the gaseous, viscous, weeping, hanging, melting, and dancing creatures -- all of them on Glira were made of molybdenum. The planet teemed with living creatures, brothers of Earthlings in reason, Danilov learned, but they all lived, moved, labored, reproduced, and multiplied not on a curved solid, but inside a viscous world, and their paths were inscrutable. To Earthlings, the Boфteians (who call themselves Glirans) would look like pig iron, while the sight of an earthling would disgust Glirans. The spheroid viscous state of the planet had a general reason as well, or a general spirit, and that was called nothing other than "The Dream" in Karmadon's report. Yes, the pig-iron Boфteians moved, fed, thought about things, invented, created civilizations, plotted against others -- but it all happened to them in an inpenetrable molybdenum dream. Each being had the ability to meld into others, to flow through a whole group of similar beings, and then their dreams became commingled, and in those dreams arose new plots and cataclysms, and thus their civilization progressed.

Karmadon was given a special assignment ("Of a moral character," was all he told Danilov), and how difficult it was for him to penetrate the dreams of the Booteians. He wasn't even allowed to sleep himself! Karmadov struggled for quite a long time, and he couldn't get inside a single molybdenum rational being. Then he somehow managed to squeeze into the dream of a naпve Booteian-Gliran. And off he went! Karmadon's adventures began: He was made a deputy, and they wanted to give him a pension, and they awarded him a molybdenum crystal first class. But for all those years he got no sleep! He watched dreams and was implicated in them, but he himself did not sleep! Even when he got back home and was sitting in the Chancery for Moral Reconstruction and writing reports on his work, he could not allow himself to yawn, even once. He did not want to ruin his reputation as an ace in special assignments. And he wanted to prove to himself that he was capable of bigger things.

Here Danilov interrupted with a question that would definitely have been posed by Misha Muravlyov:

"Don't these Booteians, these Glirans, want to establish contact with Earth?"

"They might want to, but nothing will come of it," Karmadon said. "And why would you want to contact them, when you can't wake them up? And why would they want to contact you? I've made up such dreams for them now...."

Karmadon yawned again, and his left eye grew cloudy. "He's really changed," thought Danilov. "He's gotten older or else he's truly dead tired. And he used to be so much fun."

"Let me put you to bed," Danilov said. "You'll get some sleep here. You could sleep the whole two weeks, if you want."

"No, Danilov," Karmadon said, "I can't weaken now ... otherwise, how can I be an ace? Forgive me, but I've got to leave now... It is necessary for me to be a blue bull for a while."

"You're bored with me ... or I'm ..."

"Don't take offense ... It's just that in the past few years on Sleepy Mole I had only one thought: I'll get a bonus trip to Earth and I'll be a blue bull there ... just for a week. Then I'll come back..."

"Where do you plan to be one?"

"Somewhere -- somewhere warm ..."

"But I'm responsible for your safety."

"Danilov," Karmadon said with a smile, a rather condescending one, "I've become strong and cruel."

"I'm not planning to protect you. But I could save you from a few embarrassing situations with a word of warning... It's warm in Africa now. But they'll try to make you plow there, and you'll look strange wandering around on your own. They love bulls in Spain and in South America, but they love them in a special way, and what if you find you don't like that love once you're in a corrida?"

"Is that really important?"

"Well, suit yourself..."

"Let's have a drink for the road! And I'm off."

The bottle of Northern Lights reappeared in Karmadon's hands and a squashed sprat floated in the air near his mouth. Danilov lifted his glass of cognac. They drank. They ate. Karmadon, just as he was -- in bathrobe and slippers over bare feet -- went toward the door. He was faithful to the ancient superstition of his ancestors and always vanished through the same opening he had used to enter.

"Keep well, Karmadosha," Danilov said emotionally. "Smoom sailing!"

"To the devil!" said Karmadon, and he went out onto the landing and vanished into thin air.

10

Danilov went back into the kitchen and took a sip of cognac as he reflected. "Why did I call him Karmadosha?" Danilov was upset. "That wasn't right. He's not Karmadosha to me now." Danilov felt embarrassed. He wrote off this weakness at the moment of parting to alcohol on an empty stomach, and then the Sofia saddle of lamb, which practically made him comatose. But the feelings of shame and awkwardness remained. Danilov felt like a pathetic provincial hick who had shed a tear of awe before his influential guest. More than once Danilov had wanted to tell Karmadon about Time X, to ask for his advice and even his support, but it was not polite to start talking business right away with a guest. What if Karmadon knew about Time X? Danilov ran through their conversation and decided that it was unlikely. And was it really for Danilov to beg?

In the morning Danilov called Natasha. He apologized for not having called earlier, berated himself, and when he heard her sweet voice, he invited her to Carmen with Pogosyan that evening.

"Natasha, I'll leave a ticket for you in the the administrative office, and I'll find you at intermission -- that is, if you'd care to come."

Before dealing with Klavdia's list, Danilov decided to stick Karmadon's case, jacket, hat, and wrench in the storeroom; the things weren't his, and it was not for him to throw them out. He found the Mayak station by feel on his Japanese transistor, and not without some trepidation, he picked up the folder of music by Pereslegin. However, the news coming over Mayak prevented Danilov from paying serious attention to the music. "All right, I'll look at it tonight," Danilov decided. First there was news about chess, then figure skating. And then the announcer informed them of events three hundred kilometers from the coast of central Africa, on the island of Principe, belonging to Portugal. Professor Cheevers of Oxford had flown out to Principe immediately and called the capture of a blue bull by Principe peasants a major advance for science. He claimed that finding such mythical creatures as the Abominable Snowman and the Loch Ness Monster would be less sensational than this bull. According to Western press agencies, the announcer continued, the blue bull was flown to Madrid this morning.

Danilov felt uneasy.

In the meantime the mike was passed to Yuri Strannikov, commentator on global politics. He talked about the labor conditions of Principe's peasants, who grew quinine trees, and he expressed delight in the courage and skill of those simple peasants who caught the gigantic bull. And this at a time, noted Strannikov, when famous expeditions, equipped by large expenditures of dollars and pounds, could not even find the Abominable Snowman, Nessie the leviathan, or anything else, for that matter. Then he moved on to the Spanish millionaire Burnabito, the owner of suspender factories. He was also considered a sports magnate, and his money supported soccer clubs, naturally not without profit -- for Burnabito bought the best professional soccer players from Europe and South America. But Burnabito's "foot drain" had amounted to nothing more than stamping all his feet in place -- Real was knocked out of the European Cup race once again. So that insatiable Burnabito decided to try one more trick. He bought the gigantic blue bull for three million dollars. The bull, incidentally, was peaceful and trusted simple people. But the ruthless knights of profit didn't care about science or public opinion. It was announced in Madrid that this evening there would be a grand corrida with the participation of the Principe bull. The corrida was widely advertised and the tickets cost ten times the usual price...

"So," thought Danilov, "Karmadon has turned up." According to Danilov's calculations, he had become the object of the Principe peasants' and Professor Cheevers's attention two days ago. Even though he had appeared on Earth only last night. Karmadon, like Danilov, had fully mastered the conditional line of time, and was using it to extend his vacation time on Earth. Danilov was certain that later Karma-don would ask him to mark his time of arrival on Earth on the time sheet as the first hour of this day. "Fine," Danilov decided. "I will. And seal it. But why didn't he warn me? It's kind of creepy..."

One way or another, Danilov had to find out what was going on, so he switched himself into the demon state. Otherwise, later they'd ask him what he had been thinking of. In an instant he was warming himself in Madrid on Puerta del Sol Square. The city had just awakened but was already considerably agitated. The blue bull called from bloody posters. Its face was vicious, foam-flecked, and its horns terrifying. Crowds filled the street. Halfway to the arena at the Cybela Fountain Danilov saw Gypsy women dancing the gitanna to castanets in honor of the Principe bull. Danilov stopped to watch and almost forgot about Karmadon. The arena was a madhouse! The crowds seethed. Madrid's scientific luminaries had concluded that the bull was authentic, truly from Principe; there was no adulteration, the bull's hormones and pituitary glands were normal. The bull's dimensions and weight were announced, and this disappointed Danilov a bit. However, Danilov brightened at the scientific luminaries' description of the bull's procreative apparatus. "That's no bull," thought Danilov respectfully, "that's an animal!"

The arena itself was empty. Danilov looked around and in a separate stall on a pile of hay he found the Principe bull. A gilt tablet affixed to the bars read: "Dr. Burnabito. Miguel the Bull." Danilov was surprised to find Miguel the Bull was asleep. And even asleep, he was fine, smooth, strong -- much bigger than a bison or a buffalo. But Miguel wasn't as big as an elephant. That meant that Karmadon had some sense of size and objectivity.

"Is he sleeping or pretending?" Danilov had his doubts. A straw arose from the pile and tickled Miguel's nose. Miguel did not twitch a nostril. Danilov summoned a gadfly from the African plains. Though vicious, the fly did not arouse the bull. Danilov found a banderilla in the arena storeroom and tried it on the bull. Miguel's lips twitched. Well, well!

He's really asleep. So much for Karmadon's attempts to improve his willpower! Some ace! The minute he relaxed, he conked out. What else could he expect after so many years of sleepless dreaming? Danilov found a blanket in the storeroom and tucked in Miguel.

Now Danilov could relax. Karmadon obviously was not going to wake up soon; which meant he couldn't cause any trouble. "And this evening, we'll see," thought Danilov and switched himself back into human state.

11

In Moscow, Klavdia's business awaited Danilov. "I'm making naval-style borshch for Voinov," Klavdia said over the phone. "You haven't forgotten? We're going to the futecons to reinstate my number?"

"I haven't," Danilov said with a sigh.

"See you tomorrow!"

"Eight more hours before I see Natasha," thought Danilov, not sure whether he was happy or sad.

In the break of their daytime rehearsal Danilov got the newspapers and saw a small article on the capture of the blue bull. "I wonder how he's doing," worried Danilov. "Is he asleep or awake?" He quietly moved the link on his bracelet, and his senses were in Madrid. Miguel the Bull was sleeping, covered with the blanket. The crowds around the arena continued to build. Army units were pulling up. This was one of the latest bits of news: An hour ago the famous boxer Phil Kilius flew into Madrid. Phil announced at the airport that he would kill the blue bull from Principe with one blow, right in front of the audience. He refused to discuss his financial demands for the time being.

At six-forty Danilov rushed to the main entrance. He had left tickets for Natasha on the right side, and he was planning to wait near the ticket taker there. But Natasha, program in hand, was already on her way up to the auditorium.

"Natashenka! Hello!" Danilov exclaimed.

"Hello, Volodya," Natasha said with a smile.

"Don't think badly of me for getting you a seat in the family circle. The important thing is for the box to be near the center..."

How he played, Danilov did not remember, but he must have played well. His music had no Josй, no Carmen, no workers from the Seville tobacco factory, no boys with guns, only Natasha and himself. And his viola seemed to possess the same beautiful tone that the Albani had, a sound that floated up from the pit, from the viola section into the sweet heavens of music, to the crystal garden of the large chandelier and even higher than that. Only the occasional appearance of the toreador's theme caused Danilov to worry. Then he thought about Karmadon and determined not to allow anything untoward to happen at the corrida. But now that he was near Natasha, he felt he could not leave his human state, even for an instant. He convinced himself that Karmadon would not wake up and there would be no problems. Then Danilov completely forgot about Karmadon.

He forgot not only about Karmadon, but also about Time X.

He and Natasha walked down deserted alleys toward Khokhly. Down Kitai-Gorod, then Solyanka, and then they turned down Bolshoi Ivanovsky to Kolpachny, to the palace of Mazeppa.* The cold air sobered up Danilov a bit, and he surreptitiously felt for the indicator in his coat pocket. The last walk had been all too memorable for Danilov. He wasn't afraid for his instrument this time, but for Natasha, and he was determined to thwart the efforts of that ambitious chess player Valentin Sergeyevich.

"Here, on Kolpachny," Danilov said, "once upon a time Rachka creek ran down the hill, and all around were the Gardens of Vasili the Third. That's why the hetman's palace has its back wall to Kolpachny, and as you can see, it looks modest here, all the beauty and pomp are inside..."

The hetman's palace was covered with scaffolding, for restoration. Natasha wanted to see the building from its courtyard, and they went through the arch. The moon illuminated the courtyard; however, Natasha tripped on a squared beam of polished white stone, and Danilov quickly grabbed her arm. Touching Natasha's arm excited him as if he were a teenager. Even inside the courtyard the palace was covered with scaffolding. In the semidarkness and through the planks Danilov still managed to point out the paired columns, recently uncovered by the restorers, and the sumptuous trim with broken pediments on the upper windows. The temporary door, which was covered with thick felt, bore a sign: "No admittance. Construction zone." Natasha pulled on the door and it opened.

"I've got some matches," Danilov said.

He lit a twist of newspaper and illuminated the cellar. The walls were white stone. Natasha proceeded down the plank walkway with determination, and stopped where there should have been a floor, near the wheelbarrows containing some congealed solution.

"What a miracle!" Natasha said. "Mazeppa probably came down here with a candle in his hand; this was the place to hide one's secret thoughts or recall them. Or gloat over treasures in their caskets. Hetman! Mazeppa! Where are you?" Natasha called.

Danilov walked carefully on the walkway. He wanted to tell Natasha that Mazeppa may never have lived in this palace -- it was a controversial point. He also wanted to praise Tchaikovsky for Mazeppa's arioso in the second act, "Oh, Maria ..." But he cut himself short: "What a bore I am today!" The newspaper was burning down, the polished white stones of the wall were losing their shape, swaying, and listing.

Danilov tossed away the ashen paper and embraced Natasha in the dark. Once more her lips were pliant and she did not move away.

"Don't say anything now, Volodya," Natasha whispered. "Don't..."

From the palace to Natasha's house was about two minutes by the back way. But they wandered around for another hour, or maybe two, in the alleys near Pokrovka.

"Natasha," Danilov said, "I must have hurt your feelings by not calling after Korenev's funeral..."

"I wasn't hurt," Natasha said. "I was just feeling terrible. And I wanted someone to lean on -- out of weakness, I suppose, and depression... I'm not blaming you ... you didn't know..."

"I should have known," Danilov said. "There's no excuse."

"Volodya, you didn't know this, but I used to love Misha Korenev -- eight years ago it was, but I loved him... I told you that I ran away to Perm with the man I loved and met Misha there. That's not true. I ran away with Misha. He was the man I loved..."

"Then you did come to the program because of Misha?" Danilov said carefully.

"No, Volodya. All that was over. It was very painful. But I felt sorry for Misha. I never thought he was capable of killing himself... You need strength for that, and he didn't have any... May I have a cigarette, Volodya?"

Placing his instrument on the ground, Danilov sheltered Natasha's cheeks from the wind as she lit the cigarette.

"He had left his family, his orchestra back then. He wanted to drop everything and start all over. He went to Perm. He began working in a theater, in the music department, and rented a room on Motovilikha in a wooden house. I lived with him. The opportunity arose to create a youth ensemble to play ancient music: strings, woodwinds, and clavichord. They wanted to play baroque music -- Monteverdi, and other forgotten composers. Misha was made director.

"I was only seventeen, a silly little fool, I wanted to be an actress, but I flunked the entrance to Shehepkinsky Institute. Misha said he would get me into his theater and things would take off... Their group was working out, although there were a lot of hassles; why did they want to play Monteverdi, and so on -- you can imagine it. Misha suffered; he lived on hope for a year and a half. » He was passionate, impatient. After a talk he had at the cultural section or some such place, he kept pacing the room and repeating: 'Dead end! Dead end! What a horror show! This is really the sticks!' And he took the night train to Moscow.

"I didn't go. I felt I was a burden to him, even though he still loved me... The landlady treated me like an abandoned mistress... I should have had a child, but I didn't... I wasn't a good actress, but I held on to the theater, or it held on to me. I worked in costumes, I sewed well, and I liked it ...and then when Misha was gone, it was all meaningless, I just gave up ... for a long time ... if not forever..."

Natasha stopped talking. They turned down'Starosadsky Alley, and there, beyond the corner and to the left, was Kolpachny again.

"Misha once said to me," Danilov spoke, "'Remember! He who is afraid is incomplete in love!' "

"He wrote that to me, too. And he also wrote something very strange... I can only guess at what he meant... Something was tormenting him toward the end, some mystery..."

Danilov had no doubts that there was something strange and mysterious in Misha's story. In the past few days Korenev had come to mind more than once, and Danilov tried, in vain, to understand Misha's action. But how could he!

Natasha said, "Back then I was the one who could have jumped into the Kama River. I could have... He often wrote to me from Moscow, swearing he loved me... But I got over it... and the ensemble worked out fine, they were even sent abroad to perform... But it worked out without Misha."

"I heard," Danilov said with a nod.

"Then I came back to Moscow," Natasha said. "Things weren't good with my parents... They didn't say anything, but they reproached me with their silence... They got me a job at the research institute, to keep me busy... I was a stranger to them, they didn't understand me... Through the institute, I got a room in a communal apartment, so I could live alone... I feel sorry for Misha ... and I feel bad ... as if something bad is about to happen..."

Danilov said nothing, even though any other time he would have found the right, soothing words to make them both feel better. He merely walked along in silence with Natasha. Now they headed for her house. After her story, something had come between them; they even walked apart from each other. And Misha Korenev was not the cause of this quiet remoteness, this estrangement -- no, something else separated them for an instant, forever. Each had his or her own fate and life, and these were as far apart now as they had been a month ago, when Danilov did not even suspect Natasha's existence. "Why I am going with her? Why? I'll walk her to her doorstep," Danilov thought, "and take a taxi home. I might get some sleep for a change."

But once they were at the house, Natasha asked Danilov to come up, and Danilov, after mentioning the late hour out of politeness, accepted her invitation, for it was issued with such simplicity and complete trust in him.

The house was asleep. Danilov left his viola with his coat in the entry hall. Natasha's room was warm and clean. As he always did in a new place, Danilov went over to the bookshelves first. Natasha did not have many books, but Danilov knew and liked them all. Two of them he'd been trying to get for over a year. A sewing machine stood on the table.

"I do a lot of sewing," Natasha said. "There are good designers, and even artists, from fashion houses, with names, but they need to make some money on the side. So they create and cut out designs for their customers. They need a seamstress to sew the things, and I love to do it. My things turn out beautifully... Funny -- they call me an expert... I'll put on some tea... Or would you prefer coffee?"

"Tea, I think," Danilov said.

The black emptiness of estrangement was gone now. There was only Natasha, and she had always been there. He watched her. Every graceful, easy movement of her slender, musical body excited Danilov. And when Natasha came back in from the kitchen with the tea, Danilov took her hands and did not let them go.

12

In the morning Danilov realized he hadn't had Karmadon in view for over fourteen hours! Danilov moved his bracelet link and saw Madrid. Miguel the blue bull was not in the city.

There was lots of excitement in Madrid, but no bull. Danilov located Burnabito in his countryside villa on the shores of the Mansanares. Burnabito sat in a marble pool and pummeled the water with his fists. Every few moments his secretary came over to the pool's side and tactfully reminded him that time was passing and the ransom had to be paid.

With an effort of will, Danilov went back into yesterday. He saw the arena and the crowds in it. The crowd roared as Miguel was brought out of a tunnel on an artillery cart.

This was not even the season for bullfights. Moreover, Burnabito had given instructions for several innovations. Thus Miguel was driven out on a cart, in violation of long-standing tradition. The escamillos, celebrated for their heroics, stood in colorful costumes on the field. For the full effect, all the fighting bulls had been brought out, too. The matadors -- among them the lovely Angelita, who by rights was equal to a woman torero -- stood as they were at the sight of Miguel the Bull, as if to imply that they already saw the bull in his grave. The fighting animals brought out on parade grew very nervous, practically enraged. But Miguel, as he was driven around on the trailer, did not even get up, let alone bow to the crowd, thereby earning its special respect.

Miguel was driven away, and the corrida began. First the weaker and cheaper bulls were pushed out, then the more worthy ones, and Miguel was naturally left for last. What a scene! The dance of capes and muletas, the flash of horns, the dust raised by hoofs. Danilov could not watch without pain as these people so cruelly enjoyed the suffering of innocent animals. However, he was fascinated by the beauty of the costumes and the extraordinary balletic flow of the barbarous spectacle. Many bulls were killed before they got to Miguel. The crowd roared again and again and tore up the smoke pots, though you'd think by rights they'd be worn out emotionally by this time. "Miguel! Miguel!" Everyone knew that Miguel's time had come. The famous matadors Gonzalez, Rodriguez, and Resnikviez displayed their slim legs and ornamented shoulders from the tunnel. But there was a hitch; it was clear that there was an argument under the stands. Whistles came from the crowd. And then -- in violation of all rules and etiquettes -- Miguel the Bull did not walk out but was once again driven. The assistants, who were also festively dressed, tried to chase Miguel from the trailer, but they had to unload him.

"Well, now Karmadon will show you," thought Danilov, "he'll teach you not to pick on poor animals." The picadors attacked, but it had no effect on Miguel. They jabbed him with their lances, and danced in front of him, and teased him, and kicked him, and called on his machismo, and his conscience, and pointed to the crowd: It's not their fault, the picadors implied, they're throwing flowers and transistor radios, they paid their money -- for what? And they tried to lead him away, but he would not get up. Others tried -- nothing! Confusion reigned. Then from behind the barrier came the great Gonzalez, Rodriguez, and Reznikoviez. Together for the first time! And behind them the beauty An-gelita! But the great ones were confounded, too. Miguel remained indifferent to their actions. The kings of the arena and their retinue worked for an hour and a half, to no avail. The crowds in the stands began to express their doubts in the bull. "Is he for real?" they shouted. "Hey, bull," they shouted, "stop cockteasing!" Naturally, in their own language. And then, giving in to a peculiarly southern impulse, the whole furious crowd of corrida fighters attacked Miguel the Principe bull.

The crowd leaped up rapturously. Finally Miguel reacted; he twitched his nostril -- and everyone on him or near him flew back so fast that some landed in the stands. Miguel stood up. The crowd gasped when they saw how magnificent he was. Miguel lazily turned his back on the most expensive section, and with dignity he lay down again.

And here entered the desperately brave Phil Kilius.

Everyone thought he had gone back to America. But he had not.

He appeared right by the barrier, shoving aside the police, and brandishing his fists. It was clear that he was fighting his way toward the bull. The crowd forgot the bull. They watched Phil Kilius. They believed in him as the savior of their own honor. However, the agitated Burnabito rushed from his seat with a cry: "Stop him! Don't let him through!" Many people immediately came to the conclusion that Burnabito was not doing this out of concern for the health and happiness of Miguel the Bull, but rather because of unsettled financial terms with Phil. The police grabbed Phil Kilius.

"Let me go! I'll take him for free!" howled Phil, either in the heat of the struggle or because he was so young. The policemen looked over at Burnabito, who was taken aback. Then, weakening, he gave the police the signal to let the volunteer go. Phil threw back his head desperately and danced his way toward the victim. It grew quiet. Phil ran right up to the bull and punched him right between the horns! Miguel should have been lying feet up, but he didn't stir. Phil gave him a left hook. He hit him again and again. And then his arms hung loose, like two lashes; he must have hurt them. Phil swayed and fell next to the bull. The assistants got him up with difficulty and led him away to the stands.

The crowd was in a frenzy. No order was given, probably, but all on its own from the bowels of the arena a heavy tank with a machine gun rolled onto the field and moved on Miguel the Bull as an expression of pure hostility. Danilov held his breath. The treads of the tanks, progressing with such vigor, at last aroused the bull, and he jumped up. Dazed, he stared at the tank for a second or two, then twitched his tail, dug his chin into his chest, and hooked the tank with his horns. It turned over and began rolling as if it were a tum-bleweed. The machine gun fell off, the cannon barrel twisted, and no one knew what the crew felt like because everyone was jumping from their seats and running for the exits. However, at the barrier Miguel calmed down, stretched, and quietly went into the tunnel. Danilov realized that he had not actually been awake but just sleepwalking, and his feet were taking him back to where he had felt good.

However, events moved on after the corrida. At eleven-thirty that night Miguel the Principe bull was kidnapped by five terrorists, who loaded him into a stolen plane, and flew off to parts unknown. An hour and a half later, Burnabito received a telegram from Nouakchott, which is in Mauritania. The terrorists, or whoever they were, gave Burnabito their ultimatum. Either Burnabito pay five million cash at eleven in the morning and return to his family the left-wing soccer player Chumpinas, who was bought from Santa Fe, or at 11:05 Miguel would explode in midair.

Danilov didn't even bother looking in at Nouakchott. The Sahara was nearby, with its dust and heat, and Miguel was certainly asleep anyway. Danilov did not want to bring the plane with Miguel back to Madrid. He didn't like Burnabito, and then he didn't know what Karmadon's intentions were! Danilov began to feel sorry for the terrorists. He moved the bracelet link back and returned to human beings.

13

Klavdia Petrovna was on the lookout for Danilov on the corner of Chekhov and Nastasinsky.

"Come on," she said energetically. "Please try to look guilty. And stupid. Just agree with whatever I say... Just look at you today! I swear you didn't sleep at home last night. Hm? I can tell! Another woman would give you hell! All right, I won't say a word... Have you read about the blue bull?"

"What?" Danilov said.

"I said, did you read about the blue bull in Labor today? I'll tell you about it later..."

Everything went smoothly. The door was opened once again by the charming rogue Rostovtsov, graduate of two institutes. He kissed Klavdia's hand, after taking the Fedorov pipe from his mouth for an instant. There weren't too many people in the entry hall; today wasn't a day for registration but for settling problems. This time Danilov did not put his nutria hat on the tub but carried it to the conference table -- all the supplicants seemed to come hat in hand. Danilov saw that the futecons -- including Oblakov -- were not exactly afraid of Klavdia Petrovna, but they did respect her. It was obvious that she was one of them. Her place in line was reinstated.

The futecons parted cordially with Danilov. At the door, Rostovtsov now had a hamster perched on his shoulder along with the parrot. Danilov tried to give Rostovtsov a wide berth.

"That's it," Danilov said. "I'm through with them."

"Oh, no," Klavdia countered. "I don't think so. They liked you."

"And if they hadn't, what's it to me?"

"Don't show off! They're serious people, unemotional, scientific.... If you go against them, they'll grind you to dust...."

"You've scared me. I'll keep far away from them."

"No, Danilov," Klavdia said. "You're going to be part of the wild idea."

Danilov wanted to argue, but thought it better to sabotage the plan with silence.

"When will you tell me what the idea is?" he asked.

"Quiet! Shush! I'll tell you in the next few days." Then Klavdia Petrovna thought of something: "Listen, do you know what holographs are?"

"I read something about them, but I don't remember. Why?"

"You see," Klavdia Petrovna said sadly, "collateral prognoses suggest that ten years from now I won't need Voinov as much as I will a holograph..."

"Well, suit yourself... And Voinov gets dumped?"

"No. Why?" Along with the sadness in Klavdia Petrovna's voice there was a note of tenderness, clearly brought on by the thought of Voinov. "Voinov and I have time... But, of course, I'll have to read up on holography, to know how to comport myself. But these are merely details!"

"Details." Danilov nodded.

An hour had passed in Moscow. And consequently, in Madrid as well.

As Danilov had expected, Burnabito gave in. He forked over five million cash, and released from his contract the left-wing Chumpinas to return to his family in Sante Fe. Burnabito held a press conference in his villa. He looked tired but happy.

In the meantime, the Principe bull Miguel flew into Madrid. No matter how much the locals had disliked him yesterday, after his night of adventures and sojourn in Nouakchott, he was greeted as one of the family. With guitars and castanets. The bull was still lying down, raising his head occasionally, and regarding the crowd with a murky eye, but there was something regal in his pose. He was carried out of the plane on a special litter by twenty top athletes. Miguel was loaded onto a gun carrier and headed through the city's squares and avenues with a motorcycle escort to the residence set aside for him.

Right at the airport, Dr. Burnabito held a press conference. The best females of the bovine persuasion, luscious and passionate, had been selected and awaited Miguel. The choice was up to him. By the way, Burnabito noted and smiled meaningfully, he had just received a telegram from superstar Cynthia Kewcomb. Cynthia was flying to Madrid and was prepared to pay one hundred thousand dollars to spend an hour in the company of the Principe bull. Well, Burnabito and the learned consultants would discuss Cynthia's request.

That's all Danilov needed, Cynthia Kewcomb! Cynthia had made the world forget Marilyn and Brigitte and Elizabeth. The jewelry alone she wore was sometimes worth more than a million dollars. Cynthia on the screen managed to be not only a sex bomb but a sex fog as well. In her more lyric scenes Cynthia did not act, she lived. Her movies, particularly Sentimental Tango, played underground even in the Scandinavian countries, where it was cut up by the hypocritical Scandinavian censors. And now Cynthia Kewcomb was flying to see the Principe bull. Not only Madrid but Danilov was excited, too!

He looked at Miguel. The bull was sleeping in his residence on a lion skin. Danilov yawned.

He yawned in Madrid, but shut his mouth near Pushkin, back in human state. "I could use some sleep now!" Danilov said wistfully.

But how was he to sleep?

14

He tried to convince himself that he had simply caught the yawning from Karmadon, but that was a lie. Danilov wasn't getting enough sleep, either.

"I hope I don't fall asleep in the pit!" Danilov worried. Once he did and knocked over the music stand, but even then his bow never left the strings. Now Danilov fervently drank coffee at the snack bar and roused himself with hockey talk.

That evening they were doing Bogdan Berezovsky's Nastasya Filippovna. After Sleeping Beauty Danilov could lift weights, while after Nastasya he had to shove his head under a cold shower. He loved Nastasya! It was agitated, lofty music, like a dialogue out of Dostoevsky, with a penetrating mix of voices. But here in the pit, he was not a creator but a performer, a worker, and besides everything else, he had to count the beat accurately. And in Nastasya -- modern music! -- counting was a complicated job. It gave Danilov no breaks. This time even coffee didn't help, Danilov's eyes were gummy, there were passages he played when half asleep, only to awaken with a start, while the count went on inside him by some mysterious apparatus that did not make mistakes. "If I could just last to the end, and then get out into the cold air!" dreamed Danilov.

Seated next to him was Chesnokov, a young, moustachioed violist brought into Nastasya after five rehearsals. Chesnokov did everything right, turned the pages, and, of course, used the bow to create the same movements as Danilov, but Danilov did not hear any sound coming from his instrument. Apparently Chesnokov was gunshy, afraid of losing the count and eliciting the conductor's angry or sarcastic words with a mistake. Therefore his bow flew without touching the strings. Chesnokov realized that Danilov had to be aware of this trick and was so embarrassed that he had to keep looking away. Danilov found a moment and -- naturally, without losing mental count -- whispered to him:

"Don't be upset. It's a very complicated work. You'll get used to it and it'll go well... believe me..."

In the intermission Danilov rushed to the snack bar for a bracing drink of Baikal water to stop his yawning. The flutist Sadovnikov and the violinist Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky joined him. They got beer.

"That was a pretty lady you were with last night, Volodya," Sadovnikov said.

"Pretty," Danilov agreed.

"Danilov, you're a demon!" the violinist Zemsky said with a laugh.

"What do you mean?" Danilov said.

"With women!" Zemsky leaned close to Danilov's ear, but laughed so hard that the whole snack bar could hear -- and the snack bar was full of foreigners and schoolgirls! "You're a demon with women!"

Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky was fleshy, with a bass voice. He was bald with bushy eyebrows, and among his group was known as a wild and rowdy fellow. Conductors feared his mischief-making. With his build, Nikolai Borisovich should have been a fat man in a circus, and in an orchestra he should have used his mighty chest to blow into a gigantic brass tuba for "um-pas" in scary places. But he was a violinist, and an exquisite one, with a delicate touch.

Actually, though, he hadn't played in the past six months. That is, he played, but in the manner of Danilov's neighbor Chesnokov -- he merely imitated the bow movements. He did it much more artistically than Chesnokov. And the reason he did not touch the strings was not fear of making a mistake but artistic principle. If someone wanted to test him and asked him to play any score, he could do it no worse than the first violin. But no one ever asked him to; with thirty-six violins in the orchestra, the silence of one of them, even the sweetest one, passed unnoticed. The violinists nearest Zemsky were meek and knew that he could outshout them in the end. Or perhaps, they admired his principles, which did not allow Zemsky to create sound. He had converted to a new religion in art, according to which the sounds he created should appear only inside his presumed audience. He would have dropped the old music completely, but he had only two years before retirement, and Nikolai Borisovich intended to get his pension. In everyday life he did not stand on ceremony, but he treated Danilov with respect. First of all, because he saw the musician in him, even if of the old school. And second, he was a resident in a co-op where Danilov was on the board. It was from Danilov that Nikolai Borisovich learned all the building news.

"Were you at Misha Korenev's funeral?" Zemsky asked.

"I was," Danilov said with a nod.

"I couldn't make it... Yes ... you know, he almost accepted my philosophy of music," Zemsky said. "But he was afraid of it."

"What philosophy is this, Nikolai Borisovich?" the flutist Sadovnikov asked.

"That's not for discussion over beer," Zemsky said. "Misha and I had long conversations. But he was gripped with fear. I wonder if that's why he jumped out the window."

"I don't think so," Danilov said.

"Who knows? ... Someday I'll tell you about our conversations, Volodya... That was ... yes ..."

The first bell rang.

Danilov finished playing Nastasya Filippovna. His eyelids did not close, but he was exhausted. "So Misha Korenev used to visit Zemsky," thought Danilov. "I'll have to ask Zemsky ... his theories aren't important, even though they are interesting ... the important thing is to find out about Misha..."

At home Danilov collapsed on the couch without undressing. But he found the strength to get up and make coffee And then he remembered: "How's Karmadon doing?"

He switched to the demon state, but did not plunge into Madrid life right away. As he was leaving he remembered that he still hadn't looked over the music by the composer Pereslegin. "What an irresponsible oaf am I!" Danilov scolded himself. But to switch the bracelet back and grab Pereslegin's music would have been impolite. It was like being in a moving train and pushing apart the doors to stand between cars.

But before Danilov's senses reached Madrid, a familiar airquake took place in his apartment. Everything swirled and leaped, the furniture, the dishes, the books, including the philosophy tomes, and the insurance forms relating to the Albani -- everything was sucked into a wild vortex with a crescendo of whistling sounds and an orange glow. Then something crashed and reverberated, everything returned to its place, and on Danilov's desk there appeared the demon woman Anastasiya, her beautiful bare feet tearing holes in the orchestra rehearsal schedules.

"Hello, Danilov!" said Anastasiya, hopping down to the floor. "My sweet darling Danilov, why are you avoiding me? Have you fallen in love with someone else?" She was laughing, but Danilov saw reproach in her orange eyes.

"Just all this work," muttered Danilov. "Now it's Karma-don."

"Forget it! Work!" Anastasiya waved a hand, and the sparkling stones on her fingers, some of them from other planets, created a one-second firework display in the air. "Come to me, Danilov," said Anastasiya. "I see you so rarely, come quickly..."

She moved toward Danilov without waiting for him and put her arms around him. Her enticing orange eyes were close to his. Danilov felt her voluptuous body and realized that everything could go to hell, but somehow nothing did. "What's going on?" Anastasiya pushed away from him. "You're not happy to see me? You have no desire for me at all! Then you really do have another woman! I had my fortune told, but I didn't believe it..." She stopped talking, obviously expecting Danilov to say something. He didn't. "Good-bye, Danilov!" Anastasiya said angrily. "Good-bye, darling. You won't live down this betrayal!"

Fierce and gorgeous, she stamped her foot -- it was a lucky thing that the floor didn't break -- and disappeared in a huff of pride. The air shook and a door seemed to slam.

"Why was I cold to her?" thought Danilov. "Because of Karmadon ... I have so much to do with Karmadon, and I couldn't allow myself to ..." He tried to convince himself, but he saw that the explanation was naпve and false. "No, it's because of Natasha," Danilov realized.

15

"Oh, no!" Danilov said with a gasp. "I forgot about Karmadon!"

And he flew off to Madrid.

Danilov learned that Burnabito had taken one hundred thousand dollars from Cynthia Kewcomb.

A meeting with Cynthia would hardly be likely to be beneficial for Miguel the Bull, Burnabito announced, but he could not refuse a beautiful woman. "What nerve that man has!" thought Danilov.

Burnabito smiled, but inside he was bewildered. Nothing seemed to awaken the corrida warrior in Miguel! Dozens of prime cows, dewy, passionate, and responsive, had tried to seduce the Principe bull, but not one managed to become his girlfriend. In his wrath, cruel Burnabito had those innocent bovines slaughtered for Knight-Errant Luncheon Meat. The bull was fed hormones, shown porno films that would make a blind man horny, but nothing helped.

Burnabito saw his last chance in Cynthia. Madrid believed in Cynthia. Tens of thousands of anxious people came to the town house where Miguel the Bull resided.

Holding bags of sandwiches and soft drinks, people surrounded the wrought-iron gates, hung from the walls, took seats on neighboring roofs.

"Has she come into his room yet?" the latecomers asked. "She has, she has..." came the reply with quiet joy. The Rolex company set up a digital clock billboard to mark off the seconds. The closer it got to the important time, the quieter it grew on the square.

When zeroes came up on the Rolex billboard, the door of the house flew open and glorious Cynthia came out. She did not give Burnabito the time of day, but looked over the crowd and said wearily and angrily:

"The bull is impotent!"

The crowd gasped.

"Revenge, senors, revenge!"

Everyone vowed that Cynthia's insulter would die. And most probably today.

"Why don't they leave Miguel alone! Let the poor animal have some sleep," Danilov thought. He knew that he would have to keep a close eye on Madrid. He had to anticipate events, but which -- he didn't know. "We'll see," Danilov thought and sighed.

Back among humans, Danilov stretched, and pictured Natasha sleeping. A wave of tenderness rose up in him. However, he also remembered Anastasiya and felt bad about her again. "She threatened me. I hope she doesn't do anything to Natasha... No, Anastasiya won't... She'll never suspect an Earth woman. But she will do something to me."

Danilov picked up Pereslegin's music and thought he'd run through a few sections. He got through the first page and his eyes opened wide. He quickly realized that this was real music. The symphony was in seven parts, with a viola solo. Danilov did not see anything pretentious in having seven parts and decided that they all were necessary. He did not try to penetrate Pereslegin's concept or all parts of the score yet, leaving that for when he was fresh. He simply realized that this was the real thing before him. He wanted to play a theme from the third part. But he couldn't and fell asleep right there at his desk.

16

In the morning the phone rang again. He anticipated hearing Natasha's voice. But once more got Klavdia's onslaught.

"I remember, I remember ..." Danilov muttered, and since she had gotten him out of bed, he could not resist turning the knife: "Well, did you get some books on holography?"

"For now Voinov is plenty for me," Klavdia said. "He's mine. Taken. I'll have time for holography... Yes, remember, I was telling you about the blue bull?"

"Well?"

"What do you mean, well? That one was in Madrid. And now we have one of our own up north, in Pankratiev District."

"One what?"

"Bull."

"What kind of bull?"

"Just like theirs. That is, of course, the fine details on theirs are better, probably, and the horns aren't the same, I'll bet. But it's just as huge and blue, like theirs. Except theirs is from Principe, and ours is from Pankratiev."

"What do you mean, from Pankratiev?"

"Danilov, aren't you listening? ... I've got on a nourishing face mask of tomatoes, and it's leaking. Don't you read the papers? I dreamed about that Principe bull for two nights in a row and now -- wouldn't you know it -- they found one here..."

Danilov quickly ended the conversation, pulled on his jeans, tossed a coat over his bare torso, and rushed down to the first floor in his slippers. He got the papers and read them in the elevator: "A discovery of interest. In the cattle yard of the Progress Farm in Pankratiev District an amazing bull was found. It's completely blue and is taller than the members of the kolkhoz and taller than the fireproof safe in the office. It is a powerful and modest animal, and we have never had a representative of its breed in our cattle yards before. An extraordinary bull, in fact -- it is meek and responds to the poetic name Vaska. According to zoologist V. Shirokov, it is in no way inferior to the famous bull from Principe, Miguel, which Shirokov saw on the TV program Modern Times."

"I'm sure he's just the same," said Danilov with a sigh.

Back in his apartment, he reread the article headlined "Amazing -- and Nearby" as if he could find new words in it. "All right... so ... now we have one in Pankratiev... What am I sitting here for?" Danilov suddenly thought. "I should be in Madrid. Maybe this bull in Pankratiev is merely a pretender?"

Instantly Danilov bumped his nose on the magnificent gates of the dwelling where Miguel was being kept and discovered that Miguel was not in the building. Or in Madrid at all. About twenty minutes ago, Burnabito's people had had him in view and then lost him. The turbulence had not yet begun, Madrid was quiet.

Immediately Danilov transported himself to Pankratiev District. Progress Farm was up and awake. Danilov examined the safe in the office and sensed a certain excitement in the chairman's office. The cause of the excitement was the high-level directive that arrived by helicopter. The paper read: "Immediately send the bull Vasilii accompanied by representatives to Moscow to the Exhibition of Economic Achievements. To display to visitors to the capital and to exchange experience." The farm authorities did not regret losing the bull; it was obvious that he was not meant to remain here long -- big ships need big seas -- but the loss of bullpower. Danilov peeked into the cattleyard. The bull in question was asleep. It was cooler here than in Miguel's house, and the bull's breath showed as puffs of steam. But he slept. That calmed Danilov.

The story of the Pankratiev discovery, Danilov learned, was a simple one. Three days ago in the morning gloom, the kolkhoz animalkeepers, L. D. Kukushkin and A. V. Kuleshov bumped into an unfamiliar object near the cattleyard. When they illuminated it with their lanterns, they saw that in the snow before them lay either a bull, a cow, or a wild animal.

"What a dumb animal!" said Kukushkin, but in less elegant words. It was freezing, and the men were upset, but took pity on the creature, and after giving it a few kicks with their felt boots, they led it inside. There under the electric light the man realized they'd had too much to drink last night at that bitch Lubka's. Their first thought was to run and get something more to drink; but their legs wouldn't carry them. In the meantime, the bull quietly walked to an empty stall and made himself comfortable in the hay.

"It's not one of ours," Kukushkin said.

"Nope," agreed Kuleshov.

"Whose, then?"

"Maybe he wandered over from Sunbeam Farm?" Kukushkin suggested.

"How could they grow one this size at Sunbeam?" Kuleshov countered. "This one's from the woods..."

Kukushkin doubted it, but Kuleshov stood his ground. It was a fact that somewhere nearby there was a bear possessed by an evil spirit, and apparently it had chased the bull out of the forest.

They admired the bull, pitied it, and called to it: "Vaska!" and the bull's ear twitched, as if he understood everything. A man on business in the village said: "This bull is record size!"

However, now the bull was being called to Moscow.

"There's nothing for me to do in Pankrantiev," Danilov thought. "The exhibition grounds are a stone's throw from my apartment... So Karmadon got himself three more days ... clever fellow!"

Back in Moscow, Danilov sent off the postcard to Pereslegin the composer. He even wanted to go over to see him personally but realized that he didn't have enough time. And he wanted to give the music a closer read first. The postcard turned out to be a mere suggestion for Pereslegin to call at an appointed hour.

17

Among other things, Klavdia continued to speak of the blue bull. She had gone down to the exhibition hall and to the right of the Stone Flower Fountain she saw the area for the Pankratiev bull. But the bull still hadn't come. Klavdia grumbled, "What if they starved him to death?"

Once Danilov almost reassured her about the blue bull. He didn't know how he had managed to stop himself. After all, he knew a thing or two about Vaska the bull from Pankratiev. Actually, the bull had not yet left the snowy expanses of Galichskaya Plateau. First, no one at the farm could decide who should be sent as a representative and in what guise. It must be said that there weren't too many people eager to be with Vaska, even in Moscow. Finally, by nightfall, the cattle breeders L. D. Kukushkin and A. V. Kuleshov were assigned to the trip to broaden their experience. The teetotaling agronomist Mrs. Vasilkova was sent along with them. Vaska the bull was taken to the train station on a tractor sledge. People gathered around, and even though they were already accustomed to all sorts of miracles, they expressed their amazement out loud at the bull. For some reason, it made Mrs. Vasilkova blush. Kukushkin maintained a thoughtful silence. Only Kuleshov spoke, inasmuch as he was loquacious, but repeated the same phrase over and over: "Yeah, his thing's really something!" At the station there was a long discussion about where the bull should ride -- it didn't seem right for him to travel freight as an invited guest to the exhibition. But then they decided: Moscow was Moscow, and they had other things to worry about.

Vaska waited a long time at the station. First the agronomist Vasilkova went to the store for stockings and the Archangel train went by. Then the cattle breeders Kukushkin and Kuleshov got engrossed in the newspapers and forgot about being representatives. The stationmaster Kurnev finally went home to his family, and left it to the dispatcher Solomatin, to see off the guests to the capital. "Put the bull in a freight car," were his last words. An express arrived from the north. Dispatcher Solomatin put the cattle breeders and the agronomist in a passenger compartment, shook hands, and then when the express pulled out, he saw that Vaska the bull was still on the tractor sledge.

"What's the matter with you?" Solomatin reproached the foreman Perbushin. "He got left behind!"

"So he got left behind," Perbushin said.

"How could you, Nikolai Ivanovich?"

"You try picking him up!" Perbushin said.

"There's a whole team of you here!"

"A team!" harrumphed Perbushin and spat. "Some team ... What if he's violent, that bull, who the hell knows ..."

"What do we do now?" Solomatin shook his head. "They're waiting for him in Moscow."

"Let 'em wait," said Perbushin. They had a smoke. They sat in silence for five minutes.

"I'm, you know," said Perbushin, "I'm not against... We'll get him up, big deal, a bull, don't worry! We've handled plenty of bulls like that!... But here's what I think... there's another question here ... look at it like this: What we need is a crane, like in a port somewhere, with a hook, just to move that bull safely through the air-----Or here's another thought:

Let's make a big net, like a shopping bag, with a motor and propeller, so it could pick him up and deliver him by itself ... or maybe a cart on an air cushion... We'd be the first and then all the stations would get one..."

"Where am I supposed to get a net like that?" Solomatin was sad. "Or an air cushion? ..."

"Hm!" Perbushin said. Then he said magnanimously: "All right. Let's get a conveyor belt from the packhouse and we'll send the bull right into the freight car on the belt."

"Get the conveyor belt!" Solomatin was pleased.

"Get it!" Perbushin pushed his cap back on his head. "That's easy to say! It's broken!"

Solomatin was a quiet man, but now he started shouting: "Then what are you driving me crazy for? I want that bull loaded on the Krasnoyarsk train!"

"All right, on the Krasnoyarsk," Perbushin agreed. "Otherwise he'll catch a cold out here." Perbushin and his crew felt sorry for the animal. It was getting chilled for nothing. When the train arrived an hour later, even though it wasn't the Krasnoyarsk train, the crew, with the assistance of some passengers, got the bull on board. Solomatin came out and asked: "Is the crew ready?"

"We've loaded him already!" Perbushin smiled happily.

"Where?"

"On that train!"

"It's going to Khabarovsk!" Solomatin said with a groan.

"So it's going to Khabarovsk," Perbushin said. "He'll be frozen stiff otherwise... If necessary, they'll ship him back..."

It took four days for the bull to reach Moscow. On the first day the animal was examined by experts, who could say nothing. In the morning they scheduled a private showing of the bull for specialists and award-winning workers. And it was only on the third day that they promised to bring the bull out into the big ring of the exhibition racetrack. It was known that already in Moscow were Professor Cheevers of Oxford and one of Burnabito's lawyers, who announced that Vaska was Miguel.

Professor Cheevers along with the Moscow experts were given the opportunity to examine the animal. Late that evening he announced that the Pankratiev bull resembled the one from Principe; however, the Pankratiev bull was seven centimeters taller and had more dangerous horns; Vaska's stomach was smaller, and his hairs were much thicker and longer, which was attributable to the harsh northern climate. The professor was at a loss to explain the simultaneous appearances of gigantic bulls at distant points of the globe. He said that this was one of the mysteries of the age. Burnabito's lawyer was not let near the bull. He was handed a statement that Vaska the bull had been in the kolkhoz five days ago -- that is, before Miguel vanished.

Klavdia Petrovna, naturally, wangled an invitation to the closed showing of the bull. She excitedly informed Danilov that tout le monde had come to see the bull.

"And how did that bitch Dranitsyna get an invitation? ... She can crash anything... And she was completely covered with diamonds..."

"What about the bull?" Danilov asked.

"Well! The bull! Astonishing! The way he stood!"

"Stood?" Danilov was surprised.

On principle, Danilov did not try to get into the closed showing. But he went to the exhibition racetrack with great pleasure. There was a hard frost and the sun shone. Danilov moved toward the exhibition with a light, festive step. It was a fifteen-minute walk. At the entrance he saw the lines. Danilov decided that you could freeze to death in those lines. He went to the service entrance with a determined air, took out his theater ID, waved it, and got in.

The first show should have been long over, but the bull had not yet come out.

Danilov was pushed and shoved; suddenly came a cry:

"Here he comes! They're bringing him in!"

Danilov stretched his neck and saw Vaska being led around. The public froze. The bull was gigantic and handsome. A girl of five or so shouted in delight: "A mammoth! A woolly mammoth!"

But the bull stopped, lay down in the snow, and as Danilov understood it, surrendered himself to sleep. The audience, delighted, began egging him on, demanding the promised walk around the ring. Then the public felt sorry for him -- lying in the snow! Then a murmur arose, and then they began shouting:

"We want him to walk! We paid for it! Cheats!"

Danilov sensed that if the bull did not get up right then, there would be trouble. He started making his way onto the racetrack. The buttons were torn from his coat, his muffler almost stayed with another spectator, but Danilov made it out to the bull. Here the police stopped him. The crowd roared, and not far away Danilov saw the enraged Klavdia Petrovna. "What's the matter with me? Have I forgotten what I can do?" thought Danilov. "Why am I acting in this stupid way?"

He shifted his bracelet, and a second later he was a bull even bigger than Vaska, but of another breed -- his fur was green with white stripes. Danilov walked on all fours toward the lieutenant, who looked at him respectfully and let him through.

The crowd was quiet again, and the cattle breeders Ku-kushkin and Kuleshov moved away from the blue bull, just in case. Danilov came over to Vaska the bull and poked him in the ribs with a horn.

"Karmadon, is that you?"

"So ..." Vaska muttered hoarsely after a bit.

"It's me, Danilov. Get up!"

"I don't want to," grumbled Karmadon. "Leave me alone..."

"I'm telling you -- get up!" Once more, harder, he poked Karmadon.

"Lay off..."

"Get up!"

Vaska got up.

"Now follow me," Danilov ordered. "And don't yawn! Come on, walk, I said."

First Danilov nudged Karmadon along, then he went on his own, and he did it well. They made a big circle and got a big hand. Danilov was extremely sorry that he had taken on such a huge shape and bizarre coloring, because now the experts would be interested in him, too. Once inside, he whispered to Karmadon:

"I don't have any more time. I have to get to the theater. I'll see you tomorrow. You have to make the tour of the ring three more times. Three more sessions. Otherwise the crowd will skin you... Understand?"

Vaska nodded. But he yawned as he nodded. Just in case, Danilov programmed him for three more circles. Then he went out into the empty corridor and turned back into himself.

"He's not sleeping as soundly now," Danilov noted. "But what do I care? I'm really sick of this bull."

At one in the morning he was awakened by the phone. "Natasha!" Danilov thought. But it was Klavdia.

"Danilov," she said. "I saw you. Near the bull. What were you asking the policeman?"

"I was looking for the bathroom," Danilov said grimly.

"That's not like you...Did you see the bull?"

"No!" Danilov was ready to slam down the receiver. "I was in the John."

"You missed the best part! Our people brought out another bull, educated and painted green with white stripes, so that Vaska would take him for one of his own and obey him. And that little bull, almost pathetic, got Vaska to -- "

"Enough. Good-bye. I have a toothache!" Danilov said harshly and hung up.

He didn't have a toothache, but Klavdia could give you one. "Why did I choose such an idiotic pelt?" Danilov scolded himself again. "And why did she say a little bull, a pathetic one? ..." As he fell back asleep, he remembered how pleasant it had been to walk around the snowy racetrack as a gigantic bull...

18

"Where am I?" Karmadon asked as his eyelids fluttered open the next morning.

"My place," Danilov answered curtly. "You've got five days left of your vacation. You can tell yourself that you've spent your time as a bull."

"I'm covered with the Booteian stuff again..."

He took his pills and resumed human form.

"Still didn't get enough sleep?" Danilov asked.

"I slept?" Karmadon asked, goggling at Danilov.

"No, you strolled around Spain with a guitar," Danilov said. "You're an ace, after all!"

"I shouldn't have said that," Danilov thought. "Why be mad at him? So he's been a little trouble for me; I was supposed to spend time on him."

"I slept!" Karmadon brought down his fist in despair. "I'm getting soft!"

"Don't be upset," Danilov said with a certain tenderness for Karmadon. "Big deal, so you slept..."

"The shame of it! The shame! Some ace I am! I'm a weakling!"

Karmadon groaned with suffering.

"I don't think you're exactly displaying the strongest side of your character right now," Danilov noted.

"You're right," Karmadon said and calmed down. "I'm being a weakling now."

"You mean you didn't feel anything and you don't remember anything?"

"I have a vague recollection. Like a dream ... I was led somewhere. Made to do something. I shied away from them ... to different parts of the globe... What a shame!" The phone rang. Danilov heard Natasha's voice.

What a bad break! If only Karmadon would go out for a second, for cigarettes at least, or the mail, but no, there he sat, wan and sleepy, in the chair. Danilov listened to Natasha's dear voice but was afraid to use her name. He spoke curtly and elliptically, as if he wanted to get rid of her.

"What's the matter with you, Volodya?" Natasha asked. "Aren't you happy I called?"

"No, I've really been waiting for it," Danilov said, and then looked over his shoulder at Karmadon. "I'm in a hurry right now..."

"Well, excuse me, then," Natasha said and hung up.

"Wait!" Danilov wanted to shout.

"Who was that?" Karmadon asked.

"No one," Danilov said grimly. "Just a ..."

"Well, maybe it's for the best that Natasha called now," thought Danilov. "I'll find her and apologize five days from now..."

"The coffee's ready," Danilov said. "Here's some cheese sandwiches. What are you planning to do today?"

"I don't know," Karmadon said with a drawl.

"Well, don't do anything foolish," Danilov said. "Stay at home. Turn on the TV. Read the newspaper articles about the bull."

"All right," Karmadon said with a frown.

Danilov, as usual in the mornings, was ironing his black bow tie for the orchestra pit. From the kitchen came Karmadon's loud groans over the daily papers. Danilov went in.

"Not only didn't I sleep," Karmadon said sadly, looking up, "but they didn't even let me sleep. We can only dream of peace..."

"Who told you that?"

"I figured it out myself..."

He was almost in tears. Was this the demon who had come to Earth from his distant and stormy life on Bootes? There he had been tired but mighty, he believed in himself and in his achievements to come. Then he was a volcano, and now he was a plastic ashtray with dead butts.

" 'The blue bull was an imp...' That's really too much!

Danilov, could that really have happened? Even in my sleep?"

"How can I put it? ..." Danilov began cautiously.

Karmadon threw the newspaper onto the floor; Danilov thought, this is the way reviews are flung: once it's been established they're bad, there is no further interest in the gory details. Karmadon was looking at Danilov now, and Danilov knew that Karmadon was hoping he would say that the newspaper was shameless.

"You know, there was something -- " Danilov said.

"The horror!" Karmadon shut his eyes and threw back his head. "And I had dreamed so much of being a blue bull!"

"Calm down," Danilov said.

"No, I won't calm down after this article! I might as well not go back after my vacation...Do you have dumbbells?"

"Yes," Danilov said. "Ten-pounders."

"Fine. I'll begin with a workout."

"Go ahead... Then go down to the steam baths. Either Sanduny or the Maryinsky."

"I will. I'll overcome my weaknesses."

"He will," thought Danilov.

But when he got back from the theater that night, Danilov saw that Karmadon was glum again. Danilov found a strange newspaper on the kitchen table. It was dirty and crumpled, with the remains of a snack upon it. And there were unfamiliar smells in the kitchen, too.

"You were drinking with someone?" Danilov asked.

"Yes. I met two fellows at the baths."

"Who?"

"From your building. One's a plumber, Kolya. The other's from your theater. A violinist, Zemsky. Nikolai Borisovich."

"Yes," said Danilov with a nod. "Zemsky was out sick today. Lumbago. What was he warming at the baths? His ass?"

"No, higher up."

"And how did you introduce yourself to them?"

"As your friend. We were in the same orphanage. Now I live in Siberia. A molybdenum specialist."

"Siberia's a big place."

"That's just what the old woman who sits downstairs here said to me. If I were you, I would have turned that old woman into a plant a long time ago. I told her I was from Irkutsk."

"You're in a bad mood again?"

"Ah!" Karmadon said in embarrassment. "Maybe it's all because of my knowledge..."

"What's because of your knowledge?"

"Well..." Karmadon hemmed and hawed. "All these strange incidents ..."

"I don't understand."

"Maybe my impotence comes from excessive knowledge?"

There was sadness in Karmadon's eyes, as if he had just discovered that some incurable illness would turn the rest of his life into relendess suffering. "He's so meek today," Danilov thought. A quiet compassion for Karmadon arose in Danilov again. He forgave Karmadon for Natasha hanging up on him.

"Why because of your knowledge?" Danilov asked, not for his own information but to give Karmadon the opportunity to doubt his own diagnosis.

"Danilov, haven't you observed our scholars and theoreticians? They're bald, toothless, and impotent with knowledge!"

"What do their teeth have to do with it?" Danilov really wanted to know. "And then, you -- that is, people like us aren't exactly oppressed by knowledge. We don't need it. We're practical, we have work, our crises, our feelings, we're too busy... Theoreticians, thinkers, specialists -- that's why they're theoreticians, because they're impotent in the first place... I'm not talking about baldness. That's another issue ... Thinkers and specialists have to acquire knowledge and think as part of their jobs. They are given the time and space, all time stops for them, while here ..." Danilov almost added that those theoreticians and thinkers probably have time to eat a hot meal every day, but he stopped himself.

"You're wrong," Karmadon said, with sadness again. "It can't be extinguished in us. It's part of our profession, of our demonic nature. After all, unfortunately, we are the spirits of knowledge. Have you forgotten? Yes, I'm practical, a demon of action, a realist who despises thinkers and experts, but I'm greedy. And even without willing it, I absorb sensual and practical knowledge! And it may destroy me! Maybe it will be more painful for me than for those whose discoveries are of an analytical nature! You're right, they began by being impotent. But what if I become impotent! If I weaken and dry up!"

"You just didn't get any sleep on Bootes. That's all."

"No, Danilov, it's from knowledge. Knowledge!"

Danilov realized that there was no convincing Karmadon. Danilov enjoyed an argument, even a heated one. He could argue on many subjects, including ones he knew nothing about, especially with Muravlyov and the woodwinds from the orchestra. But he did not want to argue now. Suddenly Danilov was left cold by Karmadon's anxieties; these demonic doubts had nothing to do with him, just as the complaints of Muscovites about crowding in the streetcar had nothing to do with a reindeer herder.

Danilov brought out some cognac and the Northern Lights liqueur. Just in case, he offered Karmadon the cognac, but his guest's taste had not changed.

"Yes, Danilov," said Karmadon, "you and I live by our senses! We are not among those who love exact sciences and the thought processes of dry heads. On Bootes I was entrusted with an entire civilization. I had to stir it up, and I did. I turned its course, I myself don't yet know which way. But I turned it smoothly and even gracefully; nothing creaked and nothing broke. As a craftsman, I'm pleased with myself. But the toll it took!"

Here Danilov almost reminded Karmadon that he was speaking of things that he should keep to himself. Especially in a friendly conversation.

"I had to study their civilization through and through, to understand it. Their philosophies, which are more voluminous and riskier than Earth ones, as well as their habits, which are stronger even than their philosophies! I confused their dreams, but not in a slapdash way, and I added no temptations -- they're tired of them! No, I had to create a fresh philosophy, basing it on the latest data from the exact sciences, so that the Glirins would believe it. And then permeate their dreams with that philosophy! How's that! But I was poisoning myself with knowledge. It exhausted meand tormented me. That's what did it, not the lack of sleep! And what next? For you can learn such things that will not only make you impotent and indifferent, but also make you ask: What for? Why did I confuse the Booteians' dreams? Why me? Why should I be immortal?"

Karmadon stopped talking. Danilov told himself that if he knew everything inside out to infinity, life would be a bore. He might be willing to know everything about the past, but not all archives were accessible to him. Music was his love, and he could love only by inspiration, not by calculation. Love demands mystery, exaggeration, fantasy, amazement -- what did Danilov want with the love of cool reason? Cool reason is most often deluded. As a rule it does not get what it wants. It gets something, but not what it wants.

For the time being knowledge did not terrify him in the least. On the contrary, it was part of his joys, his suffering, his love, and his music! Knowledge made it resonate. However, Karmadon's words depressed Danilov: What if Karmadon's fears were not baseless? What if the time would come when Danilov would tire of life and music, like the violinist Zemsky? What if knowledge brought destruction?

"My brother, New Margarit," said Karmadon, "became a thinker, and you should see what he looks like now!"

Karmadon frowned. New Margarit used to be an athlete.

"I feel sorry for him ... but New Margarit says that the sensation of eternity is sweet. What do you think eternity is?"

"Well..." mused Danilov. "The sensation of eternity must be when what has occurred still exists for you and the future has already occurred..."

"Well, let's say it is. Would you find that sensation sweet?"

"What has occurred can remain," Danilov said. "But I have no need of the future already occurring."

"Then what do you and I need with the sensation of eternity?"

"Why reject it outright?" Danilov said. "What if someday you want to feel eternity?"

"You go feel it!" Karmadon said in a huff.

"What's the matter with me?" Danilov thought. "Don't I want to feel eternity? In the last few seconds before Time X! When Karmadon has talked himself out, and feels better, I'll get a word in about Time X."

"Oh, Danilov," Karmadon said. "What am I supposed to do now -- change my motto? Nothing in excess! Hah! So much for that! And yet I was calm in the certainty that those words were mine... Am I going to become petty? Maybe my brain will turn to mush? How horrible!"

"It'll pass," Danilov said and waved his hand.

"This ... Cynthia," Karmadon inquired. "Is she attractive at least?"

"She's not to my taste. But many find her attractive."

Karmadon looked down, pulled the Northern Lights to him, and emptied it, drinking straight from the bottle. Liquid refilled the bottle immediately. Danilov, sensing the perfect moment, sheepishly told Karmadon about the lacquered card with Time X on it and how cleverly Valentin Sergeyevich had handed it to him. The Albani viola did not enter the story. Danilov was aware that if Karmadon still were the man he had appeared to be on the first day of his vacation, the ace with a special assignment, it would have been impossible to bring up Time X at all.

"What?" Karmadon said, looking up.

Danilov repeated his story.

"Well, well," Karmadon said. "Who's this Valentin Sergey-evich? Some flea, I'll bet... You're in the Chancery for the Other World, so ..." Karmadon thought out loud. "Over there, I know ... He furrowed his brow, indicating intense thought processes. He asked: "Incidentally, you haven't done anything?"

"No, no," Danilov said with a shrug. "Nothing like that... a few trifles, but -- "

"Honest?" Karmadon asked sternly.

"Honest," nodded Danilov, but not very firmly.

"All right," Karmadon said with a nod. "Don't despair ... you're a talented demon! I know very well... And New Margarit... he's high up now..."

Karmadon had some more Northern Lights. He was kind to Danilov now, he pitied him the way he pitied himself, taking Danilov for a victim of knowledge.

"We'll rescue you!" Karmadon struck the table with the side of his hand.

19

Upon awakening, Danilov discovered Karmadon working out with the dumbbells. Karmadon was stripped to the waist.

At six, when Danilov came back from the theater, he simply did not recognize Karmadon. Karmadon, it turned out, in order to bolster his spirits, had not only worked out with dumbbells, but also jogged in the direction of the Sheremetyev Palace, once again with the violinist Zemsky and the plumber Kolya, to whom he had taken a liking. Then Karmadon and Kolya and Zemsky wandered around, and even had a few adventures, albeit minor ones. Now Zemsky and Kolya were drinking at Danilov's house, spreading out greasy fried fish on his sheet music. Danilov went straight to the kitchen with the intention of getting plates for the zakuski. But he hesitated. All he had in the refrigerator was a can of Kuriles fish in its own juice. He had wanted to treat Karmadon on his last day of vacation in a manner befitting Muscovite hospitality. But he probably did not have the right to spend official funds on the violinist Zemsky and especially the plumber Kolya. Then Karmadon appeared in the kitchen and scattered Danilov's doubts, saying:

"What are you worrying about the plates for? Today is my treat!"

"I could never permit that -- " Danilov began.

"Silence!" Karmadon demanded.

"Well, all right -- "

"I know who you are now!" Karmadon said and poked Danilov in the ribs. "I looked in at your theater, I sat in your pit at the drums and cymbals. I was interested in a few other things, too ... I made inquiries about you at the Chanceries and got replies... And now I know who you are..."

Karmadon was smiling almost genially, but Danilov sensed something metallic, perhaps molybdic, in his geniality. "That means he checked everything... "

"Well, and who am I?" Danilov asked.

"How can I put it? You're like that ... Sterlitz... You belong here ... you blend in. You even think like a local."

Karmadon stopped here, wanting to keep Danilov in suspense: Was he about to approve him, or expose him? He approved and slapped Danilov on the back.

"That's how it should be!"

Karmadon tuned in all three stations at once on the Aurora radio in the kitchen, and turned on the taps in the sink full blast. He moved closer to Danilov and whispered:

"We need demons like you! I'll get you transferred to our Chancery for Moral Transformations. Our chancery will accept you and get you out of yours ... and then they'll never get you with Time X... but you'll have to sign on our terms... Will you agree?"

"What if the radio and the water running aren't enough and they can hear Karmadon?" thought Danilov. "We should have flushed the toilet, too!"

"Tomorrow," whispered Danilov. "We'll decide everything tomorrow."

"Fine," said Karmadon with a nod.

"Andrei Ivanovich, where are you?" came the call from the living room.

"Let's go in," Karmadon said. "You'll still have to sign my vacation papers. And help me get souvenirs."

"Why didn't you remind me about souvenirs earlier?" Danilov grew agitated. "The stores will all be closed tomorrow!"

"What an idiot!" he thought immediately. "I really do think in local terms! What do stores have to do with it?" But Karmadon, it seemed, did not notice his gaffe.

"Of course, there's nothing but crap in the stores," Danilov said. "We'll think of something..."

He was ready to put himself out for Karmadon. Because of the way things were going. And also, just out of the kindness of his heart. He even knew just what kind of souvenirs would be appreciated in each of the Nine Layers.

"Andrei Ivanovich!" Zemsky's basso boomed.

"Andrei Ivanovich is me," Karmadon explained. "Andrei Ivanovich Somov. From Irkutsk. Your guest. Come on."

"Hi, Danilov," Zemsky said, greeting his host, but then suddenly looked abashed.

"Hello, Volodya!" said the plumber Kolya. Even when he was sober, Kolya always gave Danilov a smile, because he respected him -- Danilov had never stopped up his toilet and always let out the air from his radiators when they sent up the steam.

"Nikolai Borisovich," Danilov said to Zemsky. "How are you feeling?"

"Thanks, better. I applied birch boughs to the afflicted area. But I didn't forget my music. Just today I performed my new compositions for Andrei Ivanovich..."

"What did you think, Andrei Ivanovich?"

"Amusing," Karmadon said. "Nikolai Borisovich, what do you call your movement?"

"Silencism," Zemsky said. "Silencism."

"Those faucets sure are running," Kolya interjected.

"Really!" said Zemsky with a laugh.

"Just a minute," Karmadon said.

He went to the kitchen and came back with three perspiring bottles of vodka and two of Northern Lights. To the chunks of fried fish were added sardines on black bread, a jar of spiced sprats, and -- Danilov noted this -- the can of Kuriles fish in its own juice from his refrigerator. "What's the matter with him?" thought Danilov. "Is he really worn out?" Danilov wanted to add to the refreshments: Chicken tabaka and a saddle of lamb arose immediately in his imagination. But then Danilov thought that this would not be tactful vis-а-vis Karmadon. And he returned the hot dishes to the restaurants, one local and one Balkan, and only the aroma of roast lamb lingered over the fish table.

Kolya opened the bottles and poured. And they were off. And running.

Danilov did not want to drink. But he had to.

Grabbing a moment in the noisy, meaningless conversation, Karmadon called Danilov into the entry hall, where he opened the built-in cupboard, took out fur earmuffs and inquired if they would make good souvenirs.

"Where did you get them?" Danilov asked.

It turned out that in broad daylight, when Karmadon, Zemsky, and Kolya were coming from the baths, a juvenile delinquent tore Karmadon's hat from his head and ran off. Karmadon wanted to catch him, but Zemsky and Kolya said no, he should go to the police. Karmadon went, but Zemsky and Kolya suddenly remembered pressing business when they got to the station house. Karmadon told the police about his hat, showed them his Irkutsk papers, wrote a statement, and started to wait. They were surprised and asked: "Why are you sitting here, citizen?" Karmadon explained that he was waiting for his hat -- it would be silly to go out in the cold with a bare head. All the workers at the station house came to have a look at Karmadon. Some said that he must be drunk and had probably lost or given away the hat; another, more polite policeman told Karmadon to go home. "I won't," Karmadon said. Where could he go? When he got back from vacation he would have to report and explain the loss of the hat -- after all, it appeared on his head courtesy of government funds. So Karmadon was offered a choice of eleven hats. Among them were, as Danilov now saw, two deerskin, one muskrat (Olympic-style), four rabbit, one fox, one boar, one karakul, and one of camel's hair. Karmadon had told them he couldn't tell exactly which was his hat and which wasn't. So they suggested he take all of them home for his wife or friends to identify, and then, when he had the chance, to return the others. And so Karmadon hesitated and then took them all and was now trying to decide whether they would make good souvenirs.

"They're wonderful souvenirs!" Danilov said. "But you promised to return ten of them..."

"I don't have time," Karmadon said.

"Then the rightful owners will be left without hats. Or the relatives of the people who helped you out Or someone else.."

"So what? Somebody stole my hat!" Karmadon gave Danilov a cold look. "You're saying some very strange things... What's the matter with you, Danilov?"

"Really," thought Danilov, "what is the matter with me?"

"I have my role to play," Danilov said significantly.

"Ah, yes, of course," Karmadon recalled. "But don't worry, I didn't leave any ways to trace me. They don't know with whom I'm staying or to whom I took the hats to be identified."

"Great," Danilov said. "Tomorrow we'll look for other souvenirs."

The doorbell rang.

The visitor was Kudasov. Danilov let Kudasov in, but his arrival was a surprise. Kudasov himself felt embarrassed. He muttered something about Danilov often having invited him, and his never being able to come, and this time he was in the neighborhood, and thought, "Why don't I drop in?"

"And you did right," Danilov said. Even though he would have gladly sent Kudasov packing.

"What's he doing here?" thought Danilov. And then he understood. Kudasov lived forty minutes away from Danilov's apartment. Forty minutes ago Danilov's imagination was filled with chicken tabaka and saddle of lamb from the Balkan Peninsula. The aromas had permeated his bachelor digs. Kudasov had evidently caught that sweet moment. It was understandable: Danilov had not been dining at the Muravlyovs', and for the last three weeks Kudasov had been twitching his moustache in vain.

Danilov had no objection to eating a solid meal himself. He whispered to Karmadon:

"I've got a budget for this..."

"Fire away," Karmadon said.

Danilov led Kudasov into the living room and introduced him to the other guests.

"Valйry Stepanovich Kudasov, lecturer on essential issues."

Zemsky guffawed, and the plumber Kolya was very pleased to see Kudasov.

Observing Kudasov's nostrils and moustache, Danilov felt sorry for his guest. Kudasov had smelled the charcoal-grilled lamb and now could suppose but one thing: It had already been eaten; he was too late. Danilov went into the kitchen, ordered twelve items, and also -- how weak and easygoing he was! -- a restaurant table on wheels.

"This is Andrei Ivanovich's treat," Danilov said.

Kudasov's moustache stood at attention. Later, sauce dripped from it. But the sauce managed to get into his mouth as well.

"Now, Valйry Stepanovich," said the plumber Kolya, munching on the fried fish, "how can you explain the blue bull?"

"About the blue bull," said Kudasov with a nod, hooking another piece of lamb with his fork.

"Yes, about the blue bull," Danilov seconded Kolya.

"Well," said Kudasov, "one thing is clear now. The homeland of the gigantic bull is more likely to be the forests of Kostroma than the quinine groves of Principe."

"How can those quinine groves compare?" Zemsky asked.

"The bull's not one of the aliens?" Kolya demanded point blank.

"What aliens?" Kudasov stared at Kolya.

"Everyone says," Kolya said, "that the aliens brought them here. Three thousand years ago. And when they left, they preserved them in a sleeping state. And these two woke up."

"Bulls are preserved," Zemsky said with a laugh, "at meatpacking factories!"

Andrei Ivanovich from Irkutsk did not like hearing such things about bulls. He frowned and said, "Why do you keep talking about bulls? People in Moscow have already begun forgetting about that blue bull, but you insist on bringing it up!"

Andrei Ivanovich was right. No one even remembered the green-and-white-striped bull at all in Moscow. Oh, the speed of Moscow life! It rushes on!... A congress of stomatologists had convened in Moscow, and now that was the talk of the town. Klavdia Petrovna had a guest ticket for the opening session of the congress, and now she was waiting to get into a plenary session. The rumor was that on the last working day the congress would pass a special resolution banning drills. From now on, teeth would be treated without pain by technical water and compressed air.

They drank to the dentistry convention. Danilov went back to the kitchen twice for new dishes and drinks, and more than once the company burst into song. Back in the baths, Kolya had taught Andrei Ivanovich the song "The daisies are gone, the daffodils are faded," and now Andrei Ivanovich sang it with gusto. On the other side of the wall, Klementiev, the woodwind player from the children's opera, heard the song. He lustily began to play it on his electric organ.

"What's he making all that noise for?" Karmadon was angry. "He makes noise at night, too."

Something exploded in the electric organ.

At the height of the banquet, Klavdia called.

"Danilov, I need you," she said. "I'll pick you up in a moment."

"I'm sorry," Danilov said. "I have guests..."

"Men or women?"

"Men," Danilov said.

"How many are you?"

"Five..."

"Fine," Klavdia said. "One too many. But I'll take four..."

"Where are you taking them?"

"To carry heavy things! I hope that real men would not turn down a damsel in distress..."

"What about Voinov?"

"Voinov! Voinov was created for scholarship. He has his Turks... All right. I'll be right over," Klavdia Petrovna said and hung up.

20

Next morning, Karmadon got up with the early-morning radio broadcasts and struggled for forty minutes with his weights. Then he asked Danilov to fill out the vacation papers -- the leave verification and the travel allowance.

"We'll do the list of souvenirs now, too," Karmadon said. "So we don't forget..."

"What time do you leave?"

"At twenty-four hundred ..."

"When the roosters crow?" Danilov tried to be more precise.

"Yes," Karmadon agreed. "When the roosters crow."

Karmadon spoke briskly, like a noble lord to his clerk. His eyes had grown cold, and yes, definitely metallic. On Kar-madon's suede jacket appeared a round medal, the size of a chocolate coin, with a blue bull on a black background and the words "Nothing in excess!" Over coffee, Danilov, who was still not used to today's Karmadon, asked if Karmadon's wounds made by knowledge had healed. Karmadon said severely that this conversation should be dropped. And he asked Danilov to forget the events of the past two weeks. And to forget anything that had been said in a moment of weakness.

"All right," Danilov said, growing serious.

Here Karmadon added, apparently to dispel any remaining doubts: The vacation was not wasted, for he had grown stronger, had crossed a watershed in his personal history, had matured, and was now ready for work even more significant than amusing himself with the Booteian civilization.

"Yes, I feel a definite infusion of strength," Karmadon said.

It looked as if this were the end of frankness. Once again Danilov felt like the stationmaster who was about to help the traveling gentleman with his fur coat. He was no longer sure if he had had a conversation with Karmadon about Time X.

It suddenly occurred to Danilov that perhaps Karmadon had come here not for a vacation at all but as an inspector in Danilov's case. The thought made him tremble, and he quickly grew bellicose.

Danilov sat down at his desk and began filling in the forms. Suddenly his guest became humble again and even rather subservient; he asked Danilov to fill in everything properly. And to be fair in his short report.

"All right," Danilov said drily.

Karmadon -- first on the islands of Sвo Tome and Principe and then in Pankratiev District -- had added five Earth days to his vacation. But now, with the words "Arrived" and "Left," these disappeared. The blue bull in Danilov's report was, if not heroic, at least an animal worthy of Karmadon's reputation. Danilov signed with a school pen from the forties, wooden and thin with a soft nib -- their accounting office did not allow blue ink. The parts needing seals Danilov touched with the S plate from his bracelet, which had been heated over the gas range. Now Karmadon's paperwork was in order. Karmadon wrapped them in a fireproof cloth and safety-pinned them to his trousers -- poorly filled-out or lost papers had cost more than one acquaintance of Danilov's and Karmadon's his career.

"If you decide to come over to us," Karmadon said, "it won't be ink you'll be signing with..."

"I know..." Danilov gave Karmadon a quick look.

"You promised to give me your decision today..."

"All right," Danilov said, "but first let's finish with your business and then take up mine."

"So he hasn't forgotten my case," thought Danilov. "That means he's no inspector. He really was on vacation." Danilov relaxed. And his feelings for Karmadon grew warmer. "He's all right," Danilov decided. Danilov felt that he wanted to postpone making a decision at least until evening. Who knew what the working conditions would be? Why get upset ahead of time?

"Now the souvenirs," Danilov said.

"Yes, the souvenirs ..."

They made up a list. Danilov would pack the articles and phenomena selected and send them along to catch up with Karmadon. Or on a parallel course. The list began with nine fur hats and one camel's-hair hat. The guest also asked for eight cases of Karmadon mineral water from the resort in Ossetia -- for his old man. Then came a diesel engine made by the Ludinovsky factory. Danilov wanted to ask why Karmadon needed that, but he looked very embarrassed.

"All right," Danilov said.

They put five tons of chewing gum on the list, and Danilov began trying to figure out which countries he would get it from. He would hold on to a couple of packs as a treat for Misha Muravlyov and some of the other kids. Karmadon insisted that as a souvenir he wanted an ice-skating announcer he liked, but Danilov figured he would just grab on to his mike and refuse to fly off. Karmadon was disappointed, but Danilov suggested replacing the announcer with the sheet attendant at the Maryinsky Baths, Uncle Narik, but then he remembered that Uncle Narik was Muslim and that he and Karmadon were not djins. Finally, he made up for the announcer with Kohoutek-Comet and Blue-Bull lollipops. Karmadon asked him to figure out something for the demonic ladies, and Danilov went all out! The ladies' departments, in the Paris stores Samaritaine, Monoprix, and Prisunic, were about to be emptied! And burned down, too! "I should send a few things to my friends," thought Danilov. "To Himeko and Anastasiya -- definitely! Even though Anastasiya won't accept anything from me now..." Danilov sighed. Also added to the list were Olympic-postmarked stamps; lava from Mount Tyatya; the cheerful bust of Gogol from his boulevard; edible seaweed in cans; four electric organs; a line at the Moskvar-etsk Department store; and the Rostokinsky Aqueduct... the list had fifteen more items.

Actually, thought Danilov, they shouldn't take the Rostokinsky Aqueduct. It should be left in place. It was nice to look at. And it served the city well. It had been there two hundred years. He wanted to replace it with the open-air Moskva Pool, which was responsible for mildewing paintings and books nearby, but he would regret taking the pool as well.

Karmadon seemed pleased with his souvenirs. That made Danilov happy. He realized that it wouldn't hurt to put an Albani viola on the list and then forget to send it off with Karmadon's things. "No, never." Danilov stopped himself. "You sneak!" he said and wagged a finger at himself.

Karmadon grew serious and haughty again. As befitted a demon of the seventh rank.

"We have the whole day ahead of us," Danilov said. "How do you plan to spend it?"

"Carousing," Karmadon said.

But his voice was devoid of any sweet anticipation of pleasure; he spoke coldly, firmly, as if by carousing he meant not Persian dances and smashing glasses but taking medications and reading ancient manuscripts. Perhaps he wanted to show that he was his own master now and could manage without guides or cronies. Danilov sensed a gulf between them again and regretted his own naпvetй. "Well, let him carouse," he thought, "alone or with whomever he wants..."

"Zemsky and the plumber will be here soon," Karmadon said. "And we'll be off..."

"Where to?"

"The Paveletsky Train Station."

But the first to drop by was neither Zemsky nor Kilya but Kudasov. His whiskers were twitching, and it was obvious he had been drawn to Danilov's apartment with high, albeit vague, hopes elicited by Karmadon's plans. "How did he know?" Danilov wondered. Kudasov was meek and nervous; something made him wary and frightened. Yet some passion stronger than his will picked him up and brought him here.

By noon Zemsky and the plumber Kolya had arrived.

They took a table for six at the restaurant at the Paveletsky Station. Karmadon was in charge. They were seeing him off, drinking to Irkutsk and the Siberian expanses -- even though Tambov and Saratov were more appropriate toasts at this terminus. After the first few rounds of vodka, it became apparent that Karmadon's prodigal friends were growing intoxicated faster than could be expected, either because they had gotten a head start the night before or because of the air at the Paveletsky Station. Danilov did not want to drink at all, and after observing the rather unpleasant coldness in Karmadon's eyes, he had determined to stay in control of himself. But Karmadon whispered imperiously in his ear:

"Danilov, don't switch cards on me! Don't try to stay more sober than the others ... or I'll have to think that you don't trust me, and I'll be insulted."

Danilov did not trust Karmadon at the moment. However, he did not want Karmadon to be unhappy with him. "Well, all right!" Danilov thought. "So I'll satisfy his whims on his last day, and then I'll be done with him... And I'll accept their conditions ... What do I care which Chancery I'm under?" Danilov had long thought it was important to remain yourself in the important matters while compromising in trifles. There were lots of trifles, they were obvious and therefore seemed important. But only one thing was important, and it was deep inside. Let them think that he was obedient. He was still the same Danilov, and he would not change.

They progressed to the restaurant at the Riga Station and then at the Kursk Station. When and how Karmadon had developed a taste for railroad cuisine, Danilov did not know, and asking him now seemed impolite. Then for some reason they ate standing up in the yellow snack bar at the Butovo Station. They ate from plastic plates, mostly hard-boiled eggs and herring on black bread. They drank Northern Lights and three bottles of sixty-two-proof vodka. Karmadon had picked the bottles up from the floor, supposedly from behind his trouser legs. The other Butovo connoisseurs wondered where they got vodka on a Sunday. Danilov explained that it came from the platform of the Katuar Savelovskaya line; they were selling it there. The connoisseurs rushed off ... Suddenly Danilov realized that they were munching on sprats at the Lvov Station buffet now, not at Butovo.

In Karmadon's eyes, and in his lips when he was thinking and not chewing, there was something mischievous, secretive. There was disdain and there was scorn.

Danilov drank against his will. He drank, but still noticed how Karmadon was looking at women. His eyes were hungry, thirsty. At certain moments, especially when the barmaid's ample bosom floated above the beer foam, Karmadon's eyes reflected such arousal it seemed his blood was seething. Many women came into Karmadon's field of vision, but barmaids and waitresses interested him most of all, it seemed. Karmadon's whole being demanded satisfaction and revenge.

"Andrei Ivanovich," Zemsky said, nudging Karmadon at the snack bar at the Sharapova Okhota platform, "don't miss your chance! She's really making eyes at you! Look, she even gave you an extra piece of cheese on your plate... Don't be shy, go after her!"

"No," Karmadon said softly. "She's pretty... but my heart belongs to a lady. She alone and no one else for me ... but that will be later!"

Something made Danilov very uneasy.

However, their voyage turned into such a whirlwind, such a confused mess that there was no room for thoughts of women in Danilov's head. Maybe this was Karmadon's idea of carousal -- more drinking, more eating, more singing, more traveling, and then staying put. One restaurant car closed down because of them, and it had had enough food to get all the way to the Mineral Water Spa Station in the Caucasus. Two Blue Danubes closed on the Kazan line. "Where is he putting it all? Where are we? All right, let him ... But what are we doing?" Danilov shook his head, but still he swallowed a boiled egg. Kudasov had two. A freight train carrying pigs headed for the Podolsk Meat Combine passed by. "Well, they're going to lose one car!" thought Danilov. His guess must have been right, because a huge quantity of plates with pork sausages appeared -- obviously from the passing train.

"I wish we could live here!" Karmadon said unexpectedly.

"Where here?"

"Right here," Karmadon said, looking around the walls of the dining car. "On Earth. Just like the plumber Kolya ..."

Kolya, who was nearby, perked up and started singing.

"What do you mean?" Danilov asked.

"Just that," Karmadon said with a sigh.

He was simple now and melancholy. And his melancholy was completely different from that of four days ago, after he had been the blue bull. Then Karmadon had suffered on account of his own weakness; now he was powerful but almost in tears.

Danilov felt sorry for his old schoolmate. He said:

"Forget it! It'll pass..." It was a stupid thing to say, though not completely stupid. But how smart a comment could he make now? He was drunk...

Suddenly silence plugged Danilov's ears. Motion stopped...

Danilov was on cross-country skis in a park or forest. Far ahead under the trees he saw skiers. Karmadon appeared next to him, and he was wearing skis, too.

"That's it," Karmadon said. "The meal is over. I'm full. And will be for quite a while. Aren't you full?"

"I am," muttered Danilov.

His head was heavy, but his legs could move thanks to the skis.

"Now it's time for the meeting," Karmadon said. "We'll see her here..."

"I'll go," Danilov said. "I'll just be in the way..."

"Wait," Karmadon said.

"Is he shy or something?" Danilov thought. Now Danilov realized that they were in Sokolniki Park. This was Danilov's first time on skis this winter, and he wasn't doing very well. And the trail wasn't good, it was iced over; there had been only a slight dusting of snow overnight, and the skis slid around in the ice ruts.

"We should see her now," whispered Karmadon.

Danilov saw that Karmadon was nervous. He was clearly putting off the moment of meeting.

"Did you at least make a date?" Danilov asked.

"No," Karmadon said. "That's not important... By the way, you know her... Don't be mad at me..."

"What's to be mad about?" muttered Danilov.

"The last few days I've seen her around the theater and by your house. She was probably hoping to run into you," Karmadon said.

"What?" Danilov looked up.

"There she is." Karmadon pushed off. "On the hill..."

On the hill stood Natasha.

"Introduce me to her," Karmadon said. It was an order.

Danilov rarely lost his head, but now he was taken aback. The last thing he wanted was to anger Karmadon, so he skied over to Natasha clumsily and began making silly, dumb jokes. Amazingly she responded with a smile, as if there had been no misunderstanding between them. Andrei Ivanovich Somov from Irkutsk skied over, and was introduced to Natasha. Natasha smiled at him too.

Andrei Ivanovich expressed his doubts that such a charming young lady would be able to ski down such a dangerous hill. In response, Natasha immediately pushed off. She skied deftly and gracefully, making sharp zigzags, as if she were on downhill skis. The stretch ski suit fitted her nicely, and it was apparent that Natasha's body was not only musical, it also was athletic and strong. "Did she really and truly hope to run into me at the theater or at Ostankino?" thought Danilov. "What was I waiting for, idiot?"

However, today Natasha astonished Danilov. He was used to seeing her serious, or sad, but now she was happy, even flirtatious. Was this Natasha? Much to his shame, Danilov took a quick look at his indicator. It looked like it was Natasha. Was it Karmadon who was having this effect on her? Danilov frowned. "She's flirting with him and doesn't even notice me! She likes him!" thought Danilov. He thought with indignation, with fury. He thought like a Moor instead of an Ostankino resident.

And then he thought: Let Karmadon go ahead with Natasha, he would fall behind. That would be better for everyone. For Karmadon. For Danilov. And for Natasha. He should have broken off with Natasha long ago. He posed a threat to Natasha's future. It was only his own weakness that kept him from breaking off. Now he had the opportunity... For an instant Danilov supposed that he was afraid of displeasing Karmadon and that's why his thoughts had taken this turn. But he took another look at the skiers and grew angry again. "No, look at her flirting with him, she doesn't give me the time of day! Let her! Fine! I'll stay behind... I'll say I want to feed the squirrels, that's it..."

"Danilov," Karmadon called, "you're falling behind!"

"Your stride is too strong," Danilov said.

"But you're not in the mud!" said Karmadon with a laugh and, as it seemed to Danilov, meaningfully.

"What are you doing in the mud, Volodya?" Natasha said with a sly smile. "You said you liked to ski, that you often came to Sokolniki. That's why I came here..."

"That was before, when I had the time..."

"She's so cold to me!" thought Danilov. He did pick up the hint that Natasha might be here because of him.

"Natasha, please excuse us," Karmadon said. "Our business conversation will bore you, and I'm leaving today. I have a few things to discuss with Volodya."

They went off to one side.

"I think," Karmadon said, and there was delicacy and tact in his voice, "that now you are in the way..."

"No," Danilov said firmly, "you're mistaken."

"Don't tell me you're going to try to stop me?" Karmadon asked. "You must understand how much I need her now... Her alone."

"It's out of the question," Danilov said.

"What's the matter with you? I'm being serious. It's only three days since I first saw her. But it feels as if I've needed her for a long time... I don't need other women now...

I'm not weak anymore, I have confidence in myself..."

"And I'm serious," Danilov said.

"What are we supposed to do, resort to a test of strength?" Karmadon said with a laugh.

"As you wish," Danilov said. "I'm not backing off."

Karmadon's eyes turned evil and green. He had been talking to Danilov as to a friend whose stubbornness was irritating but not cause for an argument. Now Karmadon was a ruthless giant, one who cared nothing about the feelings of tiny creatures! Still, he did not rant; he controlled himself. Yet, after all the meals at the railroad stations, the juices were fermenting in him.

"What's the matter, Danilov?" Karmadon said. "Have you forgotten who you are, and who I am? Have you forgotten your circumstances?"

"I haven't forgotten about anything," Danilov said grimly.

"Well then, proceed at your own risk..."

Danilov could imagine that Karmadon's intentions toward Natasha were sincere, but perhaps, all other things aside, Karmadon was interested in testing Danilov, in demeaning and humiliating him. Curiosity kept peeping out of Karmadon's angry eyes. That was vile. Danilov almost struck him. But a slap would have led to a duel...

"All right," Karmadon said. "The explanations are over. You won't give. But I won't either."

"If that's the case," Danilov said quietly, "then you ... you, sir, are a heartless seducer. And nothing but a cad ..."

Danilov removed his right glove, placed it on the aluminum tip of the ski pole, and handed the glove to Karmadon. Actually, it wasn't a glove but a woollen mitten, but Karmadon, after a moment's thought, accepted the mitten. He was pale. Danilov heard him gritting his teeth, even though his jaws were clenched. A violet flickering lit up Karmadon's eyes. Danilov was afraid that Karmadon might throw away the mitten -- this would mean Danilov had not only put his life on the line, but also his career! However, Karmadon still had some sense of honor. He placed Danilov's mitten in his pocket.

"Tomorrow morning," Karmadon said and pointed upward, "there. We'll discuss terms through our seconds. Now permit me to bow and leave Earth."

Danilov bowed to Karmadon.

Natasha came down the hill, skied over to Danilov and Karmadon, and asked if they had finished with their secrets.

"We have," Karmadon said. "I must head for home and then to the station. Otherwise I'll be late. Farewell."

"I'll see my guest off," Danilov said coolly to Natasha.

They traveled about two hundred yards from Natasha in silence, and then Andrei Ivanovich, traveler from Irkutsk, did not wait for the roosters to crow. He vanished into thin air.

Danilov wended his way back to the park exit.

Near the hockey palace he saw the ambitious messenger Valentin Sergeyevich among a group of elderly skiers.

Valentin Sergeyevich was eating ice cream and giggling.

21

At four in the morning Danilov sat down at his desk to write his will. However, as he surveyed the ceiling and walls, he realized that he had nothing but debts to leave. He decided to write a disposition. But "disposition" sounded like an order or demand, and he could give no orders to anyone, nor did he intend to.

That night the seconds had decided that if Danilov were unlucky and lost his essence in the course of the duel, his earthly existence would end in a fatal accident. As far as people were concerned, Danilov would be run over by a streetcar or struck by a giant icicle on Peace Avenue.

Danilov was sad. As he looked at his books, his folders of music, and thought about people dear to his heart, about music, his eyes grew misty and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Danilov knew that in the duel he could count only on his own will, and therefore an elegiac mood would bring nothing but harm. He had not cooled off yet; he was still angry and did not at all wish to be felled. But cold reason included his own death realistically as one of the possibilities of the morning. He did not want his disappearance to hurt any humans, especially those to whom he owed money. And so he had sat down to write his will. Or not a will, but a something. Danilov had no money, jewelry, car, or dacha. He was counting on the conscience of the insurance companies; both the Albani and Danilov's life were insured. Addressing "to whom it may concern," Danilov wrote down how much he owed whom and said that these debts should be paid out of the insurance. He thought: What if the police find the Albani viola? To whom should he leave it? If the Muravlyovs had played the viola, he'd have left it to them... The only hope in that family was Misha, the fifth-grader, who was learning how to do an Ossetian dance (the kind on your tiptoes) with the rest of his class and had sung "Children, drink milk for your health!" with the school chorus. Danilov decided to leave the instrument to Misha; maybe the gift would have a powerful effect on the boy and turn him to music! If only Danilov had a son ... Danilov grew sad again, but immediately pulled himself together. But the sadness returned over his books. Danilov divided them up. They were rare, marvelous books, and the thought that he might never again touch them was painful. Part of his insurance money he bequeathed to Klavdia, for she had grown accustomed to his paying for the co-op, and Danilov did not want her to get hurt. Klavdia was in no way responsible for the change in his fate.

Just in case, Danilov brought his demonic papers up to date, too. It was quite possible that Danilov would be blamed for yesterday's carousal. He tried to account for the expenses down to the last penny. When he had, he was astonished. They had eaten so much! The liters did not amaze Danilov, for a liquid is here one moment and gone the next. But how did they accommodate tens of kilograms of food or food products? Not tens of kilograms! But tons!

It turned out that Karmadon and comrades had consumed 746 kilograms of herring in pieces, not counting the weightless tails. Eggs hardboiled and not quite hardboiled -- 412,000, of which, as Danilov determined, eighty-two thousand were rotten. The sprats that had satisfied their group represented the catch of two fishing boats. Danilov also learned of foods that he did not remember ingesting. For example, four kilograms of dried grubs. And the thought of twenty kilograms of table margarine made his stomach rebel. "Look how Karmadon led us astray!"

Danilov sighed and began writing letters. To two excellent composers and one talented violist. He asked the violist to familiarize himself with Pereslegin's symphony, and if he liked it, to perform it. He recommended Pereslegin to the composers as a talented man who seemed to be shy and unlucky. He praised the symphony and suggested that kindness toward Pereslegin would be a service to Music...

Somewhere below, someone quietly struck the steam pipes. That was Danilov's second, reminding him that there were two hours left to the duel.

Danilov had had difficulties finding a second. Where was he to get one? But Karmadon wanted to observe all the niceties. According to the rules of his agreement, Danilov was not allowed to consort with any other demons; he had been assigned to the house spirits. Well, if that's all you have, then a house spirit will have to do. Danilov could feel Karmadon wince.

Which house spirit should he pick? Were any of them suitable seconds? "Hah, we have our own house spirit in this building," recalled Danilov. This house spirit they called Bek Leonovich. He rarely showed up at the meetings on Argu-novskaya Street, behaved very modestly, and didn't unscrew light bulbs. But for some reason he was considered a reckless personality. It was known that Bek Leonovich was of Oriental origin. However, he had long ago changed faiths. He did not remember his former name; this current one he had received in the thirties. At the exhibition in Ostankino, among the other pavilions, they had built one for a southern republic. It was white and light blue, filigreed, with fountains and columns. Naturally, it couldn't stand without a house spirit. And so a local spirit was located in Kokanda at the palace of Khudoyar-Khan. He agreed to move to Moscow and was given the name Uzbek Pavilionovich.

Uzbek Pavilionovich was a conscientious volunteer who knew what he was doing. Nevertheless, he could not control himself and brought along eight wives, or eight concubines, or perhaps simply eight girlfriends. He explained to the curious that he needed them in the pavilion to add color. No one ever saw them, but everyone said they were made of clay. About fifteen years ago the pavilion was repainted and dedicated to culture, and Uzbek Pavilionovich was no longer needed there. He was transferred to a neighboring apartment house in Ostankino. And then to another. And then to a third.

The third was Danilov's house, a co-op. He grieved mightily for his wives. When he left the exhibition, the filigreed pavilion, he could not take them with him, and so walled them up inside the columns. Danilov knew that at night Bek Leonovich wandered near the pavilion of culture and caressed the columns. His girlfriends moaned and called to him, and Bek Leonovich wept. Bek Leonovich's feelings moved Danilov. Since Bek Leonovich was not one to gossip, Danilov approached him with a request to serve as his second. Actually, he ordered him to, so that later Bek Leonovich could not be held responsible for anything.

Karmadon's second was Sinezud, an old demon, and a low-ranking one. But he was known as a hunter and flier, and he was also famous for his collection of pins and badges from around the universe. Part of his collection, including the badge of a Voroshilov Marksman, he wore on his chest. House spirits were not supposed to fly in space, and Bek Leonovich might have gotten dizzy if he had, so Sinezud came down to Ostankino to talk things over with Bek Leonovich.

The lion's share of the discussion was about weapons. A duel could be verbal, or with swords, fists, pistols, cards, carbines; there have even been duels where the opponents pelted each other with rocks or vegetables -- who could remember them all? Danilov and Karmadon decided to duel using medium-range missiles, those with a radius of six hundred kilometers. The seconds had to chalk off firing boundaries in an empty area, far from Earth, where even meteorites did not pass unless they had a good reason.

At five o'clock, when Danilov was still putting his papers in order, the telephone rang. Danilov was stunned. Could Natasha have sensed impending disaster? But what disaster was this for her? Her call would be superfluous now. Actually it was Podkovyrov, a co-op member from the fourth floor, who soloed with a dance group.

"Volodya," Podkovyrov said. "Excuse me, but I just knew you'd be up."

"What can I do for you?" Danilov asked.

"I wrote this yesterday!"

Podkovyrov may have been a soloist, but he imagined himself a writer. He composed brief thoughts, and aphorisms. They were published in small magazines.

"Read on," Danilov said.

"This is it -- for Horns and Cloven Hoofs. 'Notice: Autograph hounds. In Les Invalides in the city of Paris at midnight, the emperor rises from his coffin.' How about it? Funny?"

"What's so funny?"

"What do you mean?"

"He does rise."

"Who?"

"The emperor."

"When?"

"At midnight."

"Where?"

"At Les Invalides. He gets into a blimp..."

"Are you joking?"

"No. I'm not. I've seen it myself," Danilov said and hung up.

"If things were different for me now," thought Danilov, "I'd arrange a little meeting for that jerk with the emperor. Rises from his coffin..." But why be angry with Podkovyrov? Happy people don't watch the clock...

"So," Danilov said to himself, "I've written everything that is necessary. Am I really finished with all my business?" He was frightened. He had a superstition. Whenever he left on a dangerous trip, he always left one thing, no matter how small, undone. So as to feel obligated to return. "I didn't get my pants from the cleaners!" Danilov thought with relief.

His trousers were one thing, but Danilov had never sat down and played Pereslegin's composition all the way through. And he wanted to. Danilov picked up his viola. Opened Pereslegin's music. And in two minutes he forgot about the duel.

The music reverberated inside him. It was freedom and sadness, and flashes of sunlight shattered into unknown colors on facets of crystal. It was the wind hammering on a torn piece of tin on the roof, and lace that crocheted itself, and rain in warm drops rolling down the back of someone's collar, and a woman's face glowing... His neighbor Klementiev finally banged indignantly on the wall.

Danilov put down the viola and bow and sat in silence.

He was tired and sad.

Suddenly he remembered the time and saw that he had been playing for forty minutes. Klementiev deserved his thanks. He had to get ready and he had to rid himself of all weakness.

But why weakness? Had the music given him nothing but weakness? No, thought Danilov, it had given him strength, too. If only because he now felt the need to perform Pere-slegin's music, both for himself and for the public. And to do that he had to win and return. Danilov discounted the possibility that he could win but not return.

Danilov switched the link on his bracelet, and called Bek Leonovich. Bek Leonovich appeared. He was pale. Once upon a time he made the trip from Kokanda to Moscow by camel, donkey and train, but now Danilov was asking him to fly all over the place. And now he was about to undertake not a flight but a transportation. Bek Leonovich's teeth chattered.

"Just close your eyes," Danilov said, "hold on to my hand, and we'll be there in a minute. If something happens to me, my opponent will bring you back... All right... we're off!"

And they were at the site of the duel. "O Earth! O life! O Love! O music! Is this the end?" Danilov thought, as if he were still traveling. Bek Leonovich's fingers, clutching his left hand, brought Danilov back to his senses.

"Calm down, Bek Leonovich," Danilov said. "Here we are. Pretend you're on Third Novo-Ostankinskaya Street. You can walk, you can soar, you can swim...."

It was black, airless, cold, and for some reason damp. Bek Leonovich unclutched his fingers, and began walking around and touching space as if it were a wall. Then he opened his eyes.

"They're not here," he said.

"Five minutes to go," Danilov said, soothing him. "Do you have the map?"

"Yes," Bek Leonovich said.

He meant the map of the stars. Danilov looked at the complex of yellow, blue, and green lines, at the circles of solar systems, and pointed:

"We're right here." And added: "Perhaps... did you bring the chalk?" he asked Bek Leonovich.

"Yes ... and here's the flashlight."

At six Karmadon and his second had not arrived. Something was wrong. Danilov felt that Karmadon was nearby, but where? "What if he arrived invisible?" thought Danilov. Dueling had been outlawed seventy years ago, and duelists were punished severely. Maybe Karmadon was hidden in a fog for reasons of well-being? But at six he was required to appear at the barrier in the flesh. They had selected a remote spot, at the very edge of infinity. Danilov shined the flashlight on the map. That was the problem! The green line of their sector bumped into a yellow line, and disappeared. Danilov thought angrily! "Why didn't I take a better look myself!" Of course, both Karmadon and his second, if they had followed this map, would end up at a yellow point. Or even a blue one! Finally Danilov found two grim figures in capes with his telescope. They were standing far away!

Danilov and his second transported to them. In the sky above hung a dying star, like a tulip, its pink light languorous and evil. Karmadon waved his hand nervously:

"Hurry up!"

The seconds started putting up the barrier. It was just what was required: a light and sound barrier, marked by broadswords. Sinezud fastened Danilov's mittens, the ones Mrs. Muravlyov had knit for him last winter, to a broadsword. Sinezud was self-important, haughty. His badges from different universes were pinned on his cape, and they reflected the light of the dying star. Bek Leonovich and Sinezud went to examine the missile installations. Bek Leonovich behaved admirably; he did not tremble and even noticed an error in the sighting system of Karmadon's installation. Then Sinezud and Bek Leonovich checked the cover from which they would observe the duel. And here, too, the Ostankino-dweller was a brave fellow.

Finally everything had been checked and arranged. The seconds stood back to back on a chalkmark between the broadswords.

"March!" Sinezud commanded.

He and Bek Leonovich each took eleven paces and, on the spots where they stopped, they stuck broadswords into space. Then Sinezud claimed that Bek Leonovich's paces were larger than his own, and therefore Karmadon's interests were suffering. He himself paced off eleven steps from the mark to Danilov's broadsword. The distance had been measured honestly.

"Come together!" Sinezud commanded gruffly.

Danilov and Karmadon -- each from his marker -- moved toward the other.

They stopped at the chalkmark. The barrier separated them. If looks could kill, Danilov and Karmadon were trying to turn each other into ashes. Karmadon was terrifying and impatient -- there was no hope of accommodation or mercy from him. Danilov did not expect accommodation or mercy. He felt as if he were about to burst into flames, like birch bark under the fiery beam of a magnifying glass.

"Separate!" Danilov heard.

Bek Leonovich trembled, and yellow blisters appeared on the dying pink star -- Karmadon's gaze had slid over it. Danilov's throat was dry, his fingertips felt prickly. He had to calm down and come out fresh and cool on the firing range.

Sinezud waved his arm, and he and Bek Leonovich headed for cover. Danilov and Karmadon went to their installations, looked over the systems and shields one more time, turned on the tracking-system screens, and announced they were ready.

"Commence!" came Sinezud's command from the shelter.

Karmadon was supposed to shoot first. Six hundred kilometers separated him from Danilov. "What's he hesitating for?" Danilov said recklessly. And then Danilov saw an enormous Karmadon, standing right in front of him. Danilov was afraid. It was eerie. No, Karmadon wasn't in front of him, he was at his firing line. But he had grown, magnified himself; he was a hundred kilometers high, his eyes shut with dead eyelids, a gold giant ready to squash a tiny creature. "Why is he trying to scare me?" thought Danilov. "Why look so horrible? As if I were a child or a coward ..."

A white spot appeared on the screen; a missile was traveling in Danilov's direction. Danilov quickly moved forward his flying shield with its net and clenched his jaw. Now everything depended on his willpower. If it was too weak, Danilov's essence would be blasted into nothing, into emptiness. But no, he was no weaker than Karmadon. He threw the shield at the oncoming rocket, pushed against it or against Kar-madon's will, and then, when Karmadon grew tired and gave up, grabbed the rocket in the net and carried it off toward the dying star. In the distance something hissed, and a new blister appeared on the star's pink body.

"Well, I wonder how Karmadon is now?" thought Danilov. "Still a giant, or has he made himself equal to my size again?" No, Karmadon had not diminished; he stood, head proudly raised, eyes open, and now staring at Danilov with a mocking gaze. "Well, well!" thought Danilov. "Showing off!"

Danilov sat down on his hard green seat, looked away from Karmadon, turned on the navigational system, checked once more to see if the missile was still loaded, and pushed the button. Gusts of fire enveloped Danilov. He felt the missile was traveling with difficulty, like a bore through granite ore. There were moments when it stalled altogether on account of Karmadon's resistance. However, Danilov still had reserves of strength, and he pushed the rocket on, protecting the payload, and suddenly he felt Karmadon weaken. Karmadon was now hanging over an abyss, and grabbing at a root or a stone. His fingers were slipping. One more push of willpower would shove the missile into Karmadon's essence and end everything in one shot. But Danilov took pity on Karmadon. He straightened up, unclenched his jaw, and allowed Karmadon to push the rocket aside with trembling shield. And another yellow blister appeared on the pink star.

Soaked with perspiration and weak, Danilov was still. He was panting. He sensed that Karmadon knew he had spared him. The duel should end here. He had worked out his relationship with Karmadon, and that was enough.

Communications with the seconds crackled over the phones. Apparently they also had thoughts about a cease-fire.

Then came a roar of laughter. Horrible laughter, like cannon fire. Danilov saw that Karmadon had grown even taller. His hair had turned blue, he was covered with orange spots, and on his hands he had grown claws, hanging like ten swords in the black and pink space.

But most terrible of all was Karmadon's gaze. Haughty, fiery, deadly. Danilov was bewildered. Karmadon must have thought him weak, taken his clemency for an insult, and now was planning to kill him. "What does he take me for?" thought Danilov. "Why is he dressed up like a monster or a vampire?" But Karmadon was not as naive as all that; he had some idea of Earth superstitions. In fact, Danilov did not like looking at him now. It was too creepy.

Karmadon pushed his button.

Danilov barely managed to deflect Karmadon's missile. His life had hung by a hair... Danilov thought about it a second later and grew cold. He unbuttoned his collar. He was thirsty ... he had no desire to continue this duel. But what could he do? Danilov felt that Karmadon was barely breathing now, his fangs and claws were gone. Karmadon had become metal, a battleship or a robot...

Danilov pushed the button.

He thought that probably he could not defeat Karmadon and that he should relax a bit, so that when his opponent's turn came he would have strength left to protect himself from the missile. His missile moved slowly but steadily. Suddenly Danilov squinted at his monitor. A white spot trembled and grew larger on it! So that was it! Even before Danilov had pressed his button, Karmadon had shot at him, although it was clearly against the rules. This missile had a much greater payload and a far better booster than the conditions of the duel allowed!

"This is really stinking, lowdown!" Danilov cried out mentally. And once again Karmadon roared a victor's terrifying laugh. Danilov realized that the end was near. But he would see his own missile reach its goal; he could not forgive this vileness. He would put his last bit of strength, his last bit of willpower, the last efforts of his essence into that missile and its strike! And then something stunned Danilov, began exploding inside him. Colored visions came and went, there were faces, some female -- first it seemed to be Natasha, and then Anastasiya. Music tormented Danilov with pain, or perhaps it was merely pain, and then everything lost color and sound and vanished...

22

"Danilov, excuse me, please, it's me again. Podkovyrov."

"I'm listening," said Danilov with a sigh.

"What if we change the text?"

"What text?"

"About the emperor."

"How?"

"What if he doesn't rise from his coffin at midnight, but at one a.m.? Is that funnier?"

"Much funnier," said Danilov and hung up.

Danilov felt lousy. He was barely alive. His head ached, his body was sore, his fingers trembled. In addition to all that, there was a black hole in Danilov's right shoulder. The hole was slowly diminishing -- the silk threads of a deft needle were pulling it together. At first the black hole was the size of an alarm clock. Now you could cover it with a dime. It did not hurt, but merely weighed Danilov down. It was in him but also somehow had a life of its own. The hole had been taped over with a clear bandage.

Danilov was in the kitchen and wanted to take a good look at the hole. He carefully pulled back the tape. Everything flew into motion and was sucked into the hole. Danilov quickly replaced the tape, but one of the kitchen stools had reached his shoulder, crumbled in the air, and vanished down the hole in a stream of whisding splinters. The forks on the table had followed. He managed to rescue the rest. "All right," Danilov said, calming himself, "it'll turn into a dot by itself and then heal over completely... It's the usual thing ... gravitational collapse." Still, he felt funny knowing that his hole was the start of a tunnel leading to a different universe. But think of how hard Karmadon had tried.

Danilov also learned that Sinezud and Bek Leonovich had vanished completely. Danilov figured that Karmadon had gotten rid of the witnesses before performing his vile deed. He had been convinced that Danilov would disappear, too. The house spirit Bek Leonovich was gone, and it was Dan-ilov's fault. His walled-up wives would wait for him in vain. Danilov pitied them, but that was hardly the point. Oh, Karmadon, Karmadon.

No matter how weak Danilov felt, no matter what the next few moments held for him, Danilov knew that he should take care of business. Chance had saved him, chance had returned his existence to him, and well, he had to thank chance -- or Anastasiya -- and get on with his life.

Danilov decided to go over the papers he had written earlier that morning. He thought about tearing them up or burning them, but then thought: Why? They might come in handy... All his dispositions were appropriate. He did not want to renege on anything, even the bequest to Klavdia. He did tear up the letters about Pereslegin's symphony, however. He could simply call those people. But Danilov did write another card to Pereslegin himself, and asked him to drop by as soon as possible.

"Ah, how ridiculous! It's all my fault!" Danilov thought about the dead house spirit Bek Leonovich. He had promised him that everything would work out, that nothing bad would happen. "It should have been me," thought Danilov. "And not a finger should have touched him." However, he lived still, and the black hole on his shoulder was healing.

According to the eternal rules, the immortal nature of demons could not be destroyed by illness, the elements, or humans, but their own kind could kill them in a duel; that was the way. And Danilov had been destroyed by Karmadon's treacherous shot. He had almost lost consciousness and lost his essence. However, the demon woman Anastasiya had saved him. How she had learned of the duel and where she had hidden during it, Danilov did not know or try to learn. He did know what had happened to him in the final instant of the duel.

Anastasiya, watching nearby, had rushed to save Danilov with her bare hands. Not worrying about burns, she turned Karmadon's missile into its complete opposite: a black hole. There was so much matter it could have turned into a star of the first magnitude. Therefore, the black hole was huge. Anastasiya began closing its edges with silk threads. Danilov regained consciousness, and Anastasiya flew off. Obviously the proud and magnificent Anastasiya had not forgiven him!

It was not clear what her intentions were at the dueling site. But did it matter now! She did not have the right to aid Danilov, and he did not have the right to accept it. However, Karmadon was the first to violate the code of honor, and Anastasiya could not bear his vile act. Before flying off from Danilov, she still had managed to tape up the black hole after smearing it with some secret witch-doctor salve. Now the black hole was diminishing faster than it ought, leaking matter into some distant, empty corner of an alien universe.

"If Anastasiya managed to find out about our duel," thought Danilov, "that means we had other observers, too..."

Bad consequences were to be expected. Oh, Danilov was right in not wanting to challenge Karmadon.

Now Danilov was counting on this: Karmadon's influential relatives and friends would try to hush up the duel. No matter how you looked at it, Karmadon was routed. With his last missile Danilov had twisted Karmadon's jaw and damaged something in his neck. So far neither scientific mechanics nor doctors could help; they were afraid he might be disfigured. The great ace! According to all the rules, Karmadon had lost the duel, and even secret talks about the duel could only harm him.

"Well, let's see what happens," said Danilov with a sigh.

Danilov plugged in his iron and put his bow tie for the evening performance on the ironing board.

"What can I do for Pereslegin?" thought Danilov. "How can I perform his symphony? Where and with whom? I have to find Pereslegin today. Should I go to his house?"

Danilov's left hand automatically reached for the black hole. "Stop!" Danilov said to himself. "Enough!" The tape was on tight.

The phone rang. It was Natasha.

"Volodya, excuse me," Natasha said. "I had the impression that you were having problems, that something happened yesterday between you and your guest... And so I thought I'd call..."

"Mere trifles," Danilov said grimly.

"I shouldn't have called?"

"No, no ..." muttered Danilov. "Where are you?"

"You know, Volodya, I'm wandering around in your neighborhood... I went to Ostankino this morning..."

"Where are you now?"

Natasha named the place. It was two minutes' walk from Danilov's.

"I'm on my way," Danilov said.

He found Natasha on Tsander Street near the drugstore.

"Hello, Natasha," Danilov said.

"Hello, Volodya."

"Were you interested in my friend?"

"No," Natasha said.

"I was so worried about you, Volodya... Something happened last night, didn't it?"

"Yes... a minor misunderstanding... it's forgotten now."

"You're not mad at me?"

"What for?"

"I don't know... I couldn't fall asleep last night. I was afraid of something... I kept thinking I had to save you from something... I don't know... I even came here in the morning and kept walking near your house, as if you needed me. What nonsense! I'm getting nervous, I guess... You'd better keep clear of someone like me..."

"Not at all!" Danilov said, moved. "You didn't get enough sleep?"

"Does it show?" Natasha was upset. "Do I look horrible?"

"No, no, don't be silly!" Danilov said. "It must be that the air pressure was changing last night, and that gave you insomnia."

Natasha gave Danilov a strange look, as if he had insulted her, and said softly: "No... air pressure doesn't bother me...

"Really, what does she care about air pressure?" thought Danilov. "She came to the theater, and Sokolniki, and my house -- all for me! But what can I do? Anastasiya, Natasha, that stupid Klavdia -- it's all mixed up. How can I see my way clear? And in a way so that disaster is avoided?"

"Volodya, I love you," Natasha said.

"And I love you, Natasha," said Danilov.

That was it. A few people were walking around them. What else needed to be said? Nothing ...

A car stopped near Danilov and Natasha. Danilov knew the car. It was bought with Professor Voinov's money. Klavdia Petrovna flung open the door.

"Danilov!" she said angrily. "I'm rushing over to your house and you're strolling about the streets!"

"Hello, Klavdia," Danilov said.

"Hello. You have no conscience. What if I hadn't come by way of Tsander Street?"

"I wasn't expecting you."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. You didn't bother to find out if I had time to meet with you. And I don't."

"What's the matter with you, Danilov?" Klavdia was stunned. Then she seemed to notice Natasha. "Who's this?"

"This is Natasha," Danilov said. "Natasha, this is my ex-wife Klavdia Petrovna."

Klavdia should have seen that he and Natasha were intimate, and she was in the way...

"Still," Klavdia said, trying to make Natasha go away with a look, "I need you."

"Perhaps you do," Danilov said. "But I don't need you."

"Danilov," Klavdia said meekly, "you always treat women with respect..."

Danilov felt that there was something new in Klavdia's attitude toward him, something along with the old superiority and sense of absolute power -- some sort of anxiety, or suspicion, or even fear...

"I have a secret," Klavdia said softly.

"Good," Danilov said. "Some other time."

The insult gave Klavdia strength. She asked: "Are you Danilov's new flame?"

Natasha looked at Danilov.

"Natasha is my eternal flame," Danilov said.

"Be hard on him. He's got no self-discipline."

Danilov was speechless.

"I've seen you somewhere? You're not a seamstress, are you?"

"I'm not a seamstress," Natasha said. "But I sew."

"Did you sew dresses for Gavrilova based on Gagarin's patterns?"

"I did."

"I saw you at Gavrilova's! And you make hats?"

"Hats, too."

Here Klavdia Petrovna leapt out of her car, slammed the door, and forgot all about Danilov.

"I absolutely must have, and quickly, a hat of black velvet, you know, a turban, so that diamonds and pearls look good on it. My husband and I may live in England for three years. You have to be in evening dress to be received by the queen. I have a friend who lived in England. She was invited to a reception at the palace, but they wouldn't let her in without a hat. Now she's back in Moscow. She can't get over it, she's ashamed to show her face to her friends. Her life is ruined. And if they invited that stupid cow to see the queen, then Voinov and I will be invited for sure. And more than once. Will you do it? I have a pattern. I'll pay you well."

"I'll do it," Natasha said. "Your money will come in handy..."

The women began making arrangements to meet, writing down addresses and telephone numbers. Danilov was furious. He was now superfluous.

Natasha sensed his dismay, turned to him, and soothed him with her eyes.

"One thing's done, good," said Klavdia, opening the car door. "But no thanks to you, Danilov."

However, she still hadn't gotten into the car, now that her headgear had been taken care of.

"All right," Klavdia said. "I'll find you later."

And she drove off.

"I have to get to work," Natasha said.

"And I'm due at the theater soon. I'll call you."

"Just come over..."

23

At home Danilov unbuttoned his shirt and bared his shoulder. The black hole was gone. Danilov pulled off the clear bandage and gently cut the silk threads with a pair of scissors.

The doorbell rang. It was Pereslegin, on his doorstep.

"Hello," Pereslegin said. "Excuse me for not getting back to you. I was on a business trip in Saratov."

This was the time to talk about important things, but they were silent. Danilov even began to look busy, as if to let Pereslegin know that he did not have much time.

"I won't stay long," Pereslegin said.

"No, no, it's all right..." Danilov said with embarrassment.

"Did you look at it?" Pereslegin asked.

"Yes," Danilov said with a nod.

"And?"

"I liked it... I wrote and told you that..."

"Oh, yes, yes," Pereslegin agreed.

He grew silent, staring at Danilov. Apparently he expected more comments about his composition. But Danilov seemed to have forgotten everything he had felt about Pereslegin's music.

"I'd like to perform your symphony," Danilov said.

"So do it!" Pereslegin was pleased.

"How? Where?"

"That can all be arranged!" Pereslegin waved it off. "The important thing is that you liked the score!"

Danilov looked at Pereslegin with surprise. How energetic this man was. He had gotten a completely different impression of the composer's personality during their last meeting.

"Why did you give the lead part in your symphony to the viola?"

"I don't know why," Pereslegin said. "When you start creating -- forgive the fancy word -- when you start composing music, do you do it with cold reason? Later, you might explain to yourself where that sound, that melody, came from... That's the way it is with me, maybe other composers are different... I don't know... I started writing the music, and I heard the viola ... that's all..."

"Berlioz wrote Harold for Paganini's viola!" Danilov exclaimed.

"So what?"

"What do you mean, so what? Who's going to play your symphony now?"

"You will," Pereslegin said. "I heard you play at the institute. That's why П came to you. I know many violists, but I came to you..."

"He seemed like such a milquetoast last time," thought Danilov. "But he has strength, he's stubborn, and he knows what he wants. And if he knows what he wants and still believes in himself, he's brave, too..."

"Did you like the way I played?" Danilov asked.

"Yes," said Pereslegin. "And I'm happy that you understood my music. I would like to show you my other works..."

"Bring them to me," Danilov said. "I'm not so sure of myself to dream of getting solo engagements. And not so young as to get them. But I will get pleasure out of looking over your works."

"You ask where and with what orchestra?" Pereslegin said. "There's a youth orchestra I know. And I know a conductor. I'll bring you together, if you don't mind..."

Pereslegin left. After seeing him to the elevator, Danilov felt disappointed. He had looked forward to the conversation with Pereslegin, had prepared for it, even. God only knew what he hoped to get from it, but it had all passed as if they had been talking business.

Probably Pereslegin had left disappointed as well. Danilov's whole life was like that! You never get to talk, really talk with someone, open your soul, warm his soul.

These thoughts came to Danilov as he dressed hurriedly for work. He was interrupted by the arrival of the plumber Kolya, who said hello in the doorway and then, stretching his neck, looked around the apartment for something.

"Kolya, I'm in a rush," Danilov said.

"Volodya, you haven't got my tools in here by any chance, do you?"

"No," Danilov said. "You never brought them here."

"Was I here yesterday?" Kolya asked meekly.

"You were. Briefly .. "

"Where else was I?"

"I don't know."

"At the station?"

"Yes, you were with us at the station. The Paveletsky."

"Not the Kursk?"

"I don't remember," Danilov said. "You may have been at the Kursk. Ask Zemsky. You were together all the time..."

"What did I eat? Why is there smoke coming out of my mouth?"

"Tobacco?"

"No, it looks like smoke from a steam engine!"

Kolya breathed, and heavy anthracite smoke poured out of his mouth.

"I don't know," Danilov said. "They don't even have steam engines anymore... Take an antacid, Kolya, and you'll be fine..."

"I already took some."

Kolya's eyes took on a shifty look.

"You know, Volodya," Kolya said, "you give me four rubles times two -- and I'll keep quiet."

"I don't have the money, Kolya. And what are you going to keep quiet about?"

"About your pal Andrei Ivanovich from Irkutsk."

"You can talk about him all you want!"

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Kolya said meaningfully. "He promised to send me a squirrel fur hat. Will he send it?"

"If he promised -- just wait for it. I'm off!"

With these words, Danilov pushed Kolya in front of him out into the hall, locked the door, and headed for the elevator. Kolya started to cough, and the landing was enveloped in smoke.

24

No sooner had Danilov given his coat and hat to the coat check at the theater than his elbow was carefully grabbed by the violinist Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky. Zemsky quietly beckoned Danilov to the snack bar. Danilov ordered a bottle of Baikal soda; Zemsky, three bottles of Zhiguli beer.

"Well, how's your lumbago, Nikolai Borisovich?" Danilov asked. "I see you're off the sick list."

"My lumbago disappeared yesterday! Must have been the steam bath ... but... my body is in terrible shape...."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know..."

Nikolai Borisovich looked at Danilov with a certain anxiety. His eyes seemed to plead, as if he wanted absolution from Danilov.

"Did I misbehave yesterday?" Zemsky asked.

"You drank a lot, that's all..."

"Didn't I eat?"

"You ate," Danilov said, "but not a lot."

"It's so strange," Zemsky said, shaking his head. "Strange ... bad dreams ... visions ..." Zemsky stopped and gave Danilov a frightened look. "And here's a receipt -- a fine... Seems I was going to Minsk without a ticket..."

Danilov shrugged.

"Are you missing anything?" Zemsky suddenly asked.

"From where?"

"Your kitchen?"

"I haven't noticed..."

"Is this yours?"

Zemsky pulled out a long object wrapped in a towel from beneath his coat. He placed it on his lap so that no one in the snack bar could see it and then undiapered it. A carving knife was revealed. Danilov examined the knife and saw tiny words inked on the wooden handle: "Restaurant of station Morshansk-II. Tonya Solontsova. Whoever swipes it will knife himself to death!" Danilov felt sorry for Zemsky and said: "Yes, it's my knife. Muravlyov brought it back for me once."

"I've never been a kleptomaniac before," Zemsky said. "And now, just before retirement, can you believe it?"

"Permit me to give it to you," Danilov said.

"No, no! Are you crazy?" Zemsky moved away from the knife in fear.

He finished the beer wanly. He was worried that Danilov would hit him with some unexpected reminiscence. But curiosity flared up in his eyes.

"Your friend Andrei Ivanovich," Zemsky began at last. "He's -- "

He looked around in fright. Danilov had never seen the boistrous, loudmouthed Zemsky so bewildered and so quiet.

"It's time for us to go into the pit," Danilov said.

"You promised to come visit me, Volodya. To listen to my compositions. Why don't you drop by .. how about first thing tomorrow morning? And I'll tell you about Misha Korenev, too..."

"I'll call you," Danilov said.

"All I need is Kudasov showing up with explanations," thought Danilov. "Oh, Karmadon ..."

After the performance he bumped into Kudasov at the stage door. Danilov gave Kudasov a stern look and said: "I don't remember anything, I was not sober. Nothing is missing from my house. You did not kick up a row, you did not break any laws. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Zemsky asked me to give you this knife. Here it is."

Danilov handed Kudasov the towel-wrapped knife, and Kudasov accepted it without thinking.

"What knife?" Kudasov asked.

"This one. For carving."

"I'll walk you," Kudasov said.

"No," Danilov said. "There's no need. I'm going to a house where the refrigerator is empty."

Danilov was not being honest; he had hopes that the refrigerator at his house would have a tiny bit of something, however meager. At least a can of liver pate, if only with a smidgen left on the bottom. Or a piece of sausage. They ate a lot yesterday, but by nightfall Danilov was hungry again. Perhaps some of the calories from his organism had flown down the black hole.

He took the streetcar to the Pokrovsky gates. He was just about to turn into Khokhlovsky Alley when he sensed that someone was slinking around behind him. "Kudasov!" Danilov thought sadly. But when he stopped and studied the silhouette in the dark he realized that it wasn't Kudasov but the ruddy-cheeked Rostovtsov from the futecons. Danilov took out his indicator. The naked Rubensian female did not start glowing in Rostovtsov's presence; therefore it must be the real Rostovtsov and not Valentin Sergeyevich in disguise or one of his agents. "What does he want from me? Why is he following me?" Danilov wanted to approach Rostovtsov and ask him straight out why he was playing detective. However, it was late, and Danilov was in a hurry.

25

It was eight o'clock in the morning. Danilov knew that Zemsky was an early riser and called him.

"Hello, Nikolai Borisovich," Danilov said. "Forgive me for disturbing you, but you invited me yesterday..."

"Of course, Volodya," Zemsky said. "I'm expecting you in fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes later, Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky opened the door to Danilov. Zemsky bowed, as if inviting Danilov to dance a minuet, and led him into a large room. Danilov glanced down at his own jeans and worn loafers and blushed. Nikolai Borisovich had put on formal concert tails; his shirt and the black bow under his Adam's apple were fresh and festive, as if they had been made just for today.

"Sit down, Volodya," Nikolai Borisovich boomed. "Here's a chair!"

Zemsky's basso, as usual, was gigantic, rolling. But today it sounded serious, severe.

"Will you have some cognac, Volodya?" Zemsky asked.

"No, no! Please. We have to go to work!"

"I don't usually drink cognac, you know that. I prefer vodka. Or ... but now ... I'm so ... How about a shot for morning cheer and acuity of perception?"

"Well, if it's for acuity of perception," Danilov said and downed a shot glass of cognac.

He was seated in an enormous, soft armchair with a tall, comfortable back upholstered in black velvet.

"We really don't have much time, Volodya," Zemsky said. "Therefore I will perform my compositions immediately. I compose in traditional forms, those you know. I have symphonies, a ballet, and oratorios. I have instrumental works, not only for the violin but also for the organ, piano, piccolo, and so on. There are other pieces... You may not understand them at first or even grow angry... I'll start with two simple pieces for the violin. Incidentally, when I played them for your friend Andrei Ivanovich, he liked the second one better..."

"I'm all ears," Danilov said.

Zemsky probably did not hear his guest; he was already immersed in his music. It agitated and tormented him, Danilov could see that. Danilov felt awkward. In ten minutes or so he would have to say something to Zemsky about all this, and there was the possiblity that his compositions would be lousy.

Zemsky picked up the violin, and stood by the upright piano. He seemed majestic, and he frightened Danilov somehow.

Nikolai Borisovich picked up his bow.

"The first piece is called 'Farewell to a Hotel Room in Tambov,' " announced Nikolai Borisovich as if he were talking not only to Danilov but also to an invisible audience listening quietly nearby. The second is 'Morning Suffering in the Environs of Corinth.' "

He started to play, but Danilov heard no sounds. The farewell to the hotel room apparently was elegiac; something had obviously happened to Zemsky in Tambov. The bow floated above the strings at a slight distance in meditation and sadness. At first Danilov watched the bow with curiosity, trying like a lip-reader to guess about the music composed by Nikolai Borisovich. He could not guess. The music, probably, was new and inaccessible to Danilov. Danilov's attention wandered. He began observing the room from the corner of his eye, but in a way so that Nikolai Borisovich would not notice. But what was Nikolai Borisovich capable of noticing now? He was inspiration itself. He was creating. He was grieving over the outcome of his life in Tambov...

Nikolai Borisovich finished the first piece, lowered the bow, and inclined his head for an instant. Then he shook himself, raised the bow, and turned his thoughts and emotions to morning suffering. The sufferings -- of whom? perhaps a centaur? -- near Corinth were serious ones. The bow's flights were nervous and headlong. Danilov enjoyed the artistic movements of Nikolai Borisovich's hands and eyebrows.

Zemsky stopped.

Danilov was silent.

Nikolai Borisovich put his violin on the table, glanced nervously at Danilov, poured the cognac and offered it to his guest, then quickly drank his own, and sat down.

"Well?" Zemsky asked.

"A bit unusual," Danilov said.

"Just as I thought," Zemsky said disappointedly. "I knew that at first you would react that way. Even though I hoped ... hmm ... Now your friend from Irkutsk, he felt a lot right away... So did Misha Korenev ... the late -- "

"Nikolai Borisovich," Danilov asked carefully, "what is your direction in art called?"

"Silencism," Zemsky said with a heavy nod.

Nikolai Borisovich stood and paced the room.

"Actually, Volodya, I had thought about explaining its essence beforehand. But I decided to take the risk. What if you felt it all right off? ..."

"I did feel some of it," Danilov said meekly.

"Well, as long as you're here," Zemsky said, disregarding Danilov's words, "you'll have to hear a lecture. I hope it will be a short one. And then I'll perform another piece for you. It's more complex than the first two..."

Nikolai Borisovich began his explanations from afar. From the very origins of traditional music, the very music that Danilov now served and that he, Zemsky, had served for over thirty years.

"That music arose because, as the ancients surmised, our hearing, compared to the other senses, is endowed with far fewer natural pleasures. Eyes see much that is ugly. But there is much that is beautiful before them.

"But what do the ears hear? Nothing but ugliness! Shouts, crows cawing, the whine of buzz saws, the clash of swords, the hiss of kitchen stoves and the quarrels of the cooks, the rumbling of stomachs, the whistle of flying bombs, the howling of dogs, not to mention the scolding of mothers. Noises and sounds irritate man more and more, they are more harmful than air pollution. People hear so little that is pleasant: bird songs, the rustle of the forest, the gentle splash of water, the laughter of infants.

"And so, in consolation, man created music. He arranged sounds with the help of tones, modes, rhythms, and so on into pleasant combinations and for dozens of centuries has been trying to replace Nature's miserliness with music. And a special world of music arose, a world that is boundless and omnipotent. At least that's what people think.

"All the old music is in some way the reflection of harmony, no matter what you call it. But is the world harmonious? Is life harmonious? Ah, Volodya, don't make a face. Where is there harmony? The lion tears apart the deer, golden grains grow on mass graves, a woman sells her body, a drunken hand mutilates a baby, the violist Chekhonin licks the chief conductor's tails so that he, and not you, Danilov, gets to go on the tour of Italy! Harmony!"

"But what if Chekhonin is behaving that way," Danilov said, "in search of harmony? At least for himself."

Zemsky merely waved his hand.

"No," he said, "the world is anything you want to call it -- but not harmony. That means that traditional music lies. I, Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky, respect the creators of the past; in some of them, say Beethoven, I see a nature similar to my own, and I pity them for having taken a false path. Let their works remain, let them be performed by pedants in museums two hundred years from now. That changes nothing... But real music, in order to correspond to the world, should not extract only the sweet sounds from Nature, it should also be honest and treat all sounds, be they horrible or even blasphemous, and torment people's souls with the truth of life. Has our age come up with a new music? No. It's true that the music of our age is more nervous and angry than the compositions of the past. But as a whole -- with jazz improvisations and atonal directions and the discoveries of pop artists and so on and so on -- it is still the same traditional music."

Here Nikolai Borisovich stopped and grew silent.

"Therefore," Danilov said, "your direction, silencism, aspires to a certain universality? And you have created a system of universal sounds?"

"I haven't created anything," grumbled Zemsky. "All the sounds necessary for true music are in each of us. And they are as rich and true in comparison to external sounds as are our thoughts and feeling when compared to our words and gestures.

"Music should be written that will sound only inside each listener. This music will never grow obsolete and at the moment of its performance will correspond exactly to the level of people's conception of the world and the level of the development of music."

Naturally, Nikolai Borisovich had in mind only those listeners who were capable of comprehending his compositions. These compositions did not need to be written down in musical notation. Musical notation would grow obsolete, the way cuneiform writing had. The compositions would need only precise verbal designations. And of course, later, even the words could be replaced by something more perfect.

To make the approach to his music easier, Nikolai Borisovich had written many works in traditional musical forms. And he used familiar instruments. Later, when people had mastered Zemsky's music, they would understand his more complex works, written without concessions to old tastes.

"I would have explained all that to you right away," Nikolai Borisovich said. "Now I'll play another piece for you. It's also for the violin. That's also a concession... But I have to do that for you so you can feel my music... It's a more complex work. It's called 'Bare Ice in April on Commune Square.' It has three parts: 'Anticyclone,' 'Ice on Asphalt,' and 'The Breaking of the Trolleybus Windows.' "

Judging by the bow's nervous motions, this composition once again reflected the tragic clash of elements and destinies. Danilov watched Zemsky's playing intensely, trying to hear something. Suddenly it seemed to Danilov that he really was hearing music or at least the howling of the night wind and the rustle of newspaper scraps carried by the wind over frozen puddles. When Nikolai Borisovich reached the third part, Danilov shut his eyes and clearly pictured a milk tank truck right in front of the park entrance crashing into the side of trolleybus 13 -- and the windows breaking.

"I heard something," Danilov told Zemsky, who was putting his violin away in its case. "Something sounded in me."

"It's not necessary for it to sound," Zemsky said. "It has to arise..."

"No, really," Danilov said, as if convincing himself. "There was something, there was!"

Now it even seemed to him that he heard not only the howling wind and rustling papers, the breaking glass and squealing brakes, but also something special, musical, that had touched his soul. He clearly felt sympathy for the driver of the smashed-up trolleybus. But he did not dare tell this to Nikolai Borisovich, who perhaps had intended eliciting a completely different response to his work.

"It's fine with instrumental music," Danilov said. "But what about ballets?"

"The principle's the same. You must convey the idea to the audience. For the less talented creatively there will have to be a libretto, a brief one, like program notes. Later, I think, the need even for performers will fall off. Everyone will watch and listen to ballet within himself. Some will gather in theaters out of habit; others will stay at home in an armchair like this, with their eyes shut..."

"You mean Tchaikovsky," Danilov said, "could have conveyed to us the ideas of Swan Lake or Sleeping Beauty this way? Ideas that would be more profound and personal than the ones we have now."

Nikolai Borisovich must have heard the irony in Danilov's words, for he took them as an insult.

"No, Tchaikovsky couldn't have, he couldn't!" he said hotly. Then he quieted down and added weakly, as if he had lost all interest in the subject: "You, brother Danilov, are bound by the shackles of the old music. And you have no intention, for now, of breaking free. You like them. It's sad but understandable. You are young, you've started to play well, brilliantly at times, and you expect a lot for yourself from the old music. Once I was like that -- look over there on that shelf, I have prizes and diplomas. I could have gone far. But doubts gnawed at me, I expected perfection, perfection! However, perfection did not come. And then everything bored me. But I did not give up. I conquered. In silencism I will find perfection as a performer, a creator, and a thinker. Or I already have... But you play, play, make sound while you can! You're still young."

"Not so young," Danilov said sadly.

"Actually ... Misha Korenev was already defeated at your age.

"Misha used to come to you?"

"He was like a son to me."

Nikolai Borisovich stood up abruptly and began pacing the room.

"Did Korenev accept silencism?" he asked.

"Misha understood me. But silencism frightened him. Terribly ... However, his final act tells me that he accepted silencism."

"Does it?"

"Yes," Zemsky said. "You learned the ABCs of silencism today... But Misha went off into higher silence. He leapt there ... or ascended..."

"Then for you the highest silence is the disappearance of the personality, death? Is that it?"

"No," Zemsky countered hotly. "Not for me! I'm a creator! For me music is the continuation of life. Even if life consists of nothing but sorrow and sin. But for weak personalities, Misha's leap into silence is serenity.

"In order to justify his existence, Misha was determined to create practically a bonfire in music -- the old music, naturally. Or a fireworks display. But in general, I'll tell you, he wasn't particularly gifted..."

"I know," Danilov said with a nod.

"He wasn't, alas ... but he'd fall into a frenzy, thinking that he could conquer music, and then he'd collapse into a depression... saying that he should go off to become a truck driver or something. I watched him and I understood that he would go off, but not to become a truck driver..."

"And you didn't try to stop him?"

"No."

"But he was like a son to you..."

"Everyone has his destiny... No, I didn't console him, on the contrary. The same thing had happened to me, but I didn't give up. It's a question of either -- or here. There is no middle ground. He did not survive. And that means that he couldn't have survived..."

"You tempted him... You pushed him toward the abyss..."

"Maybe it was to the abyss. Maybe it's more accurate to say toward the window. Yes, I did tempt him. Yes, I did push him. And I don't regret it... But I didn't push him to the abyss, I pushed him to a choice and a decision... He chose silence... He couldn't have chosen anything else..."

"That is all very cruel."

"So be it. But it's also honest... and it was cruel to me as well. I liked Misha... I couldn't even go to the funeral... I didn't have the strength..."

"But you're alive. And he's dead."

Zemsky loomed over Danilov. Is this the Zemsky who just yesterday reeled in confusion with the knife in the buffet? No. This was an oracle, who knew that his prophecies would come to pass. Triumph glowed in Zemsky's eyes. Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky towered above all humanity.

Danilov could no longer sit beneath Zemsky, and he stood up. His movement was harsh, a protest. Nikolai Borisovich noticed it, came to his senses, and spoke more softly.

"The real artist is lonely. I'm lonely. And so are you."

"I'm lonely?" Danilov was amazed.

"You're lonely," Zemsky said with a nod. "Let me tell you: You can become a great musician. In the old meaning of the word. I've been listening to you for seven years, maybe more. You're playing better and better. And since you lost your Albani, you're playing even more colorfully on your plain instrument. Others are willing to pay almost any price just for a small success, for a tiny bit of fame... Misha Korenev? He was willing to sell his soul to the devil in moments of desperation... He tried to play the Paganini, it didn't work, and he thought: What if Paganini really had made a pact with the devil? ..."

"It never happened!" Danilov said.

"Why didn't it!" Nikolai Borisovich exclaimed in a high-pitched, nervous voice. "Misha had moments when he wanted to believe in the possibility of that deal! Why talk about Misha? I have those moments, too..."

"Are you serious?" Danilov asked.

"I couldn't be more serious! I get so depressed sometimes that I, Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky, am ready to fall to my knees before anyone -- supernatural being or alien from an advanced civilization, anyone -- fall to my knees and beg him to make me all-powerful, at least in art, and famous, and he can demand any payment in return he wants!"

Zemsky fell on his knees before Danilov.

"I'll sign anything, the most horrible document, in blood if necessary," Nikolai Borisovich exclaimed. "If you need my soul, then take it; if you want my life, take it; if I have to suffer later or perform some deed, fine, I agree! Just satisfy my desire!"

"Get up, Nikolai Borisovich. Why are you on your knees before me?"

"Who else then?" Zemsky asked.

"Get up immediately, Nikolai Borisovich," Danilov said dryly. "Really, it's rather unpleasant."

Nikolai Borisovich had fallen to his knees, but he rose with difficulty, as if his lumbago were acting up. A broken old man, he moved to the armchair, and Danilov saw that the fire had gone out of his eyes. There was no hope.

After a silence, Zemsky asked: "Your friend from Irkutsk, he isn't coming around anymore?"

"I'm not sure," Danilov said, "but I don't think that falling to your knees before him would be wise."

"Maybe," Zemsky whispered. "Maybe. I was just... just in case -- "

"And why all of a sudden?" Danilov asked. "Why do you need someone's help? What's the matter -- aren't you sure of silencism?"

"I'm sure! I'm sure!" Nikolai Borisovich yelled, "but who will understand my silencism now? No one. Who will learn about my works a hundred years from now? No one. I'll drop dead and the Pioneers* will haul off my papers to the recycling plant: Who needs the stuff of somebody named Zemsky? In order for there to be any interest in my theories and compositions, a hundred years from now, I have to become famous now. Now! And for that I am prepared to sign anything. And in blood!"

"I can't be of any help to you," Danilov said.

"Is that so?"

"Nikolai Borisovich, you are looking at me strangely. Are you trying to frighten me the way you frightened Misha Korenev?"

"If you are what you say you are -- "

"I don't say I'm anyone," Danilov said. "However, I am definitely getting the impression that you are taking me for someone else. Who?"

"It could be anyone -- "

"You," Danilov said angrily, "apparently have convinced yourself of some childish nonsense... It's ridiculous and unpleasant..."

"Forgive me, Volodya!" Zemsky said, speaking fast. "It's all a joke... but, as you know, not everyone likes my jokes... Forgive me... Forget what I said... It's time to get to the theater. I'll give you a cognac for the road. And I'll have some homemade wine."

Nikolai Borisovich filled Danilov's shot glass and then headed into the next room. He returned with a large chalice, made, as Danilov saw, from a skull and circled, on top and bottom, with bands of silver. The silver was engraved. The wine in the chalice was cherry-colored and somewhat transparent. "What a lunatic!" Danilov thought.

"It's all a joke, Volodya! Maybe I still believe in my own strength!"

Here Nikolai Borisovich burst out laughing, opened the ring on the middle finger of his left hand, and poured a red powder into the cup. This made the cherry liquid boil and bubble, and blue-gray steam arose from it. Nikolai Borisovich hoisted the chalice and emptied it like a water glass. Danilov did not feel like having cognac, but he drank it now. "Mysticism of some sort," thought Danilov.

In the entry way, Danilov said to Zemsky: "You can keep your blood-red wine, that's your business. However, you curtailed Korenev's life needlessly."

"Maybe I did and maybe I didn't!" said Zemsky with a laugh. The cherry liquid had made him high. He seemed to be bursting with joy. With his broad belly he pushed Danilov against the entry wall and deafened him:

"You, Danilov, don't show off! What do you know? Nothing! Now, Misha took away a mystery with him. Figure it out. That would be something!"

As he headed for the elevator, Danilov nevertheless turned to give Zemsky a stiff little bow. Zemsky slammed the door behind him.

26

At the theater Danilov learned that the fireproof lockers for the instruments had come. Turukanov played a "Gloria" on his trumpet in honor of the administration and the union. Danilov received the key to his locker, drove in a nail for his tuxedo hanger, and thought how good it would have been to put his Albani in there, too. He sat on the floor next to his locker. The past few days had been so busy he had almost forgotten the Albani. And now he felt sick. As if he had just discovered the loss.

"Nice locker, eh?" Zemsky asked.

"It's nice," Danilov agreed.

"Nice ... I'm thinking of lining mine with cloth ... black... The union could, if they wanted to...."

"They could..."

"That Turukanov is persistent," Zemsky said, referring to the cellist, their local leader. "He should be a store director or be in charge of supplies at a factory. But this time that pig is fine!"

Danilov also considered Turukanov a real pig, but for getting the lockers he deserved a vote of thanks.

"I hear you're going to do a solo performance soon. At the Searchlight Factory Club."

"I am?"

"You are. With a youth orchestra. You're going to perform a symphony by some novice? ..."

"How do you know?"

"I know," Zemsky said. "Aren't you taking a risk at your age? Well, why not? ... The bigger they are, the harder they fall.... Aren't you afraid?"

"I'm afraid," Danilov said and turned away from Zemsky.

"What does the Searchlight Factory Club have to do with this?" thought Danilov. Of course, he knew that Zemsky did free-lance work with factory opera companies, where he actually moved his bow across the strings, and obtained loud noises that could be heard back in the accounting offices. That's where Zemsky must have gotten information about the Searchlight Factory Club.

Pereslegin called from a phone booth. Danilov could hear streetcars running past. Pereslegin said that everything was moving along, Danilov had to meet tomorrow with Yuri Chudetsky, the conductor of the youth orchestra. The orchestra was a good one, with a full complement, all professionals; Danilov didn't need to worry. And if Danilov hadn't changed his mind, of course, the performance would be in three weeks or so.

"At the Searchlight Factory Club?" Danilov asked.

"No," Pereslegin said. "At the Culture Palace of Electrical Workers. We had made plans with Searchlight, but they changed their minds. And that's fine. Their club is too small for an orchestra. The electricians have a much bigger one."

"I'm free at nine tomorrow morning."

"Good. Chudetsky will come to see you at nine... Vladimir Alekseyevich, it was a pleasure talking to you. I'm off. Errands. And people are banging on the phone booth..."

"Three weeks!" Danilov suddenly realized. "What about Time X? They're counting on me, and -- pow! -- not a trace of me will be left." However, Danilov immediately forbade himself to think about Time X. He decided: "Now tomorrow the conductor Chudetsky is coming, and we'll talk about music then. I won't let him run off." Danilov even bought a bottle of cognac. However, at nine in the morning Chudetsky did not come, he called. He made arrangements with Danilov about rehearsal times, apologized, said he was in a rush, and hung up.

Danilov sighed, put away the cognac, and decided to go to the self-service bar on Korolev Street to have a beer. But his intentions were blocked by another telephone call.

The caller had a lyric bass, which would have been fine if the caller had been a singer, especially of such roles as Prince Igor and Mazeppa. Danilov thought this voice sounded familiar -- but from where? The stranger spoke softly, mysteriously, almost as if Danilov were a bird in a cage. Danilov checked the voice with his indicator -- no, the caller was a local.

"Your mysteriousness makes me curious," Danilov said. "You make it clear that you know a lot about me. Therefore, you know that I don't have much time, so I'd like to ask you to get to the point of your business."

"For the moment I have no business," the stranger said, "but I do have a proposition."

"Which is?"

"To work with us."

"And who are you?"

"How can I put it? ..."

"Just like it is."

"Nastasyinsky Alley, Rostovtsov's apartment..."

"The futecons, you mean?"

"That's not a serious word ... but you can use it..."

Suddenly Danilov recognized the voice. He was talking to the skewbald man with the sideburns. He was, perhaps, the secretary of the futecons, the one who usually wrote in the account books. But maybe he wasn't the secretary.

"You're the secretary with the sideburns," Danilov said.

"How did you recognize me?"

"I'm a musician. I have to have a good ear."

"This is an official call."

"Did Klavdia Petrovna put you on to me?"

"What does Klavdia Petrovna have to do with this? Klavdia Petrovna is part of the line! We are interested in you, for your own sake. And Klavdia Petrovna should not find out about my call."

"And what prompted this official call?"

"Our initiative group is special, experimental... well, you have a general idea. We are on our own for the present, but what we are doing, if only in our analyses and forecasts, will bring definite good to society..."

Here Danilov remembered the fifteen rubles and the solid citizens who stood with numbers inked on their hands in Rostovtsov's waiting room. He said: "Do you mean the people in your line when you refer to society?"

"This is an experiment, and we can handle only a certain number of people, the ones who are most receptive to the conditions of our test."

"All right," Danilov said. "But what do you need me for?"

"We have many difficulties. Especially in the area of scientific forecasting. We need your help. Naturally, it will be rewarded."

"My help?" Danilov said in surprise.

"Yes," said the skewbald man. "We know of your abilities."

"I'm an orchestra musician. What abilities do I have?"

"We're not talking about your musical abilities."

"Which ones, then?"

"You know which..."

"You're confusing me with someone else."

"No. We know everything about you."

"From whom?"

"We have our people."

"Those people are mistaken and they have misled you."

"You mean you do not wish to accept our proposition?" the skewbald man said grimly.

"I am taking your call as a joke that I cannot appreciate because I have no sense of humor."

"Too bad. For us. And for you. I'd like to give you time to think it over, so that later you won't regret this frivolous attitude toward a serious matter."

"You sound as if you were threatening me."

"Perhaps I am. Irrational stubbornness should be punished... Then, apparently you do not believe in our seriousness or in our power, but soon you'll experience them firsthand..."

"And what will happen?"

"There will be some minor unpleasantness -- say, at the theater... Well, for instance, you may not go to Italy with the orchestra..."

"What else?"

"The police probably won't ever find the Albani..."

"Go on..."

"Three weeks from now a performance by you at the House of Culture of Medical Workers is supposed to take place..."

"Why not at the Palace of Electrical Workers?"

"The Palace of Electrical Workers will be the site of a ballroom dancing contest, and the orchestra will have to look for another hall..."

"Well, all right, so it's at the House of Culture of Medical Workers... So what?"

"So your performance will not take place... It might not ever take place..."

"That's enough! I can get angry, too."

"That's entirely up to you."

"You are contradicting yourself. You ascribe special abilities to me and threaten me with minor unpleasantness. But if I do have such abilities, what do I care about your threats?! Shouldn't you be thinking about how to protect yourselves from my unpleasantness?"

There was a silence and heavy breathing. Then he said, but not confidently:

"You see, this is a unique situation. We probably did not find the right way to approach you, so please consider this just a preliminary discussion... We approached you Earth-Style... And you, perhaps, on your high level, are full of other feelings... Perhaps you were insulted by my talk of rewarding you... This is foreign to you ... I can understand... We are feeling our way around here... But you must understand. We're trying to look into the future, and why shouldn't... a creature ... say, who came here from a higher civilization, even if he's busy with his own concerns, help us out? It's a tiny drop in the bucket of his riches. And we are merely people who are interested in bringing the future closer."

"Are you referring to me as a creature?"

"No, I was speaking theoretically... "

"Do you take me for an alien? There's no need for further conversation."

"Too bad. We have our earthly powers, and you may end up regretting -- "

Danilov hung up. "You crooks and confutes!" he said out loud. "You dare threaten me?"

He was keeping up a brave front, but he felt terrible. How did they learn so much about him? And why did they suspect mat he was an alien? Who gave them that information? Klavdia? Rostovtsov? Or maybe their computer?

The futecons were the last straw! "It's hard enough as it is," thought Danilov, "and now there're the futecons! Maybe I should have agreed; maybe they are good and wise people, and they take people's money just for out-of-pocket expenses." Danilov recalled the people in Rostovtsov's apartment and felt that they were aliens to him. He had no sympathy for wheeler-dealers, movers and shakers, and social climbers. No, Danilov told himself, even if the futecons had learned that in music and in his love for Natasha he felt compelled to be human and therefore vulnerable, even then he would not be afraid of them, and he would not enter into any collaboration with them.

27

They rehearsed mornings in the hall of the Palace of Electrical Workers. The players were young people; Danilov could have been their older brother. In the evenings they all had jobs -- some in theater orchestras, some at Moskoncert,* some in restaurant bands. They were all unhappy with their present jobs. Their souls yearned to play great music. Even if they weren't paid for it. They longed for independence and passion and were confident of their chances of becoming an Oistrakh, a Richter, or even a Beethoven. At the first rehearsal Danilov felt the orchestra members looking at him. They knew each others' worth already. Danilov played diligently, but probably not as well as he did at home -- no, not probably, but definitely. He did not notice any dissatisfied faces in the pit. But, no one banged with approval on the music stands either. Their attitude toward him was nonchalant, businesslike. Afterward, Danilov went off to one side, sat down on a chair, and put down his instrument. Chudetsky and Pereslegin were standing just five meters away from him. They were worrying, not about his playing or the orchestra's, but about the fact that the symphony ran forty-four minutes. They thought it was too long.

The composer Pereslegin then said to him: "It seemed okay..." That was it. Did he mean Danilov's playing or his own music? Was he comforting Danilov, or himself? Pereslegin left right after that, and Danilov decided that Pereslegin was unhappy with him. "But when is a composer ever pleased with a performer?" Danilov asked himself, but that didn't make him feel any better. The conductor Chudetsky came over to him. Chudetsky was Danilov's age. He had a gentle manner and looked more like a diplomat than a conductor. But there was also something strong-willed and important about him. Chudetsky politely gave Danilov some advice, and settled on the time of the next rehearsal, He added, "I think this symphony will soar..." but he added it without conviction.

"It'll soar, all right," Danilov said to himself, sitting with the score that night. "The question is how high."

Danilov suffered. After the fourth rehearsal he told Pereslegin in measured tones that it wasn't too late to ask another violist. "No, no!" Pereslegin said firmly. And went off somewhere. Actually it seemed to Danilov that Pereslegin and Chudetsky were feeling better about him. And the eyes of the pit musicians seemed to display more interest in him. But Danilov still was gloomy.

Now he thought he understood how Pereslegin's music should be played. That made him more depressed. Could he play it that way?

Sometimes Danilov got angry with his instrument and would say with a sigh, "If I only had the Albani ..." But it wasn't a question of the Albani! If only it were! Danilov grew haggard, and he was already too thin in the first place.

Pereslegin was irritable, too; he didn't like his music, or the orchestra, or Danilov's playing, and probably the fact that the viola had a solo in his symphony. He stalked the stage like a woodsman; if an ax had suddenly appeared in his hands he would have chopped up the music stands and instruments, including the brass, in his anger. After such pacing, he would bark insulting words at the orchestra and then at Danilov.

Danilov became so frustrated that he had a fight with Natasha. Twice he promised to come over, and then reneged. Finally she called him; he was practicing and didn't return to reality fast enough, so he said something hurtful, and she took offense. At any other time, he would have sought her out immediately and smoothed things over. But this time he took offense himself. "She doesn't understand me," thought Danilov. "She doesn't care about my music!" Danilov blamed himself. "Have I thought about the people I care about lately? That's why I'm so lonely..." He immediately argued with himself. Who said he was lonely? He had lots of friends -- the Muravlyovs, for instance. They cared about his work; they were always ready to listen to him talk, and to help him out. They wouldn't help out an empty, selfish man, would they? Hardly ...

Danilov thought this way, alternately berating himself and justifying himself. Sometimes he promised to become a different person. But how different -- he had no idea. Yet for all this, he had no intention of making up with Natasha. Danilov was in a huff.

At last Danilov was pleased with his playing at a rehearsal. He even smiled that morning. When he got to the theater he learned that the violist Chekhonin would be going to Italy instead of him. "Well," Danilov said to himself, "Chekhonin deserves a trip, too." Even though he knew that Chekhonin was a lousy musician. And the others knew it, too. In the intermission Danilov wandered around glumly. He was hurt; he should have been storming offices, demanding, pleading. But Danilov wouldn't have done that even before ... He recalled the phone call from the skewbald futecon. "Here it is, the elder's curse!" Or was it? ... In the morning Danilov cautiously asked Chudetsky if there were any problems with the hall at the Palace of Electricity.

"Why?" Chudetsky said, surprised.

"Nothing, I just ... I was just wondering if there was a ballroom-dancing contest planned."

"I'll go find out," Chudetsky said.

Chudetsky left as the carefree maestro of Strauss waltzes, and returned ready for Tchaikovsky's Sixth.

"You're right, they're planning a ballroom dance contest," Chudetsky said. "That means we have to start the whole thing over again... What a shame ..."

Danilov wanted to suggest the House of Culture of Medical Workers but restrained himself. "Well, thanks a lot, fute-cons!" thought Danilov. "I'm going to start getting angry soon..."

That night Danilov's phone rang. Danilov got up slowly and picked it up reluctantly. It was Klavdia. She was suffering, she felt terrible, she wanted to see Danilov, she begged him to come over the next day.

"Forgive me, I don't have time," Danilov said.

"Volodenka, I never ask you for anything, but this time I need you... You must help me..."

"The hell with her!" thought Danilov. But Klavdia's voice sounded unusually pathetic. As if something had actually happened to her. The day before yesterday Danilov had been blaming himself for being self-centered, and now he was refusing to help a person in need. And Danilov wanted to find out more about the futecons from Klavdia.

At Voinov's apartment Danilov was greeted by Klavdia in a silk robe, with a scarf over her hair rollers. Danilov had expected Klavdia to come out crying and to throw herself into his arms for solace. "She's bugging me for nothing again," thought Danilov. Professor Voinov was home, too.

He shook Danilov's hand. Danilov noted that Voinov's belly was smaller -- he had been jogging the past few weeks.

On the living-room floor were four Old Castle wine bottles with corks inside. Voinov went back to the bottles. He sat down on a chair and tried to get the cork out of the nearest bottle with a shoelace. The fierce concentration required made him stick the corner of his tongue out. Danilov became anxious and crouched near by, ready to help.

"Let's go, come on," Klavdia said sharply.

"Yesterday I could do it," Voinov said, as if apologizing to Danilov, "but today the noose keeps slipping."

"Why is he doing that?" Danilov asked in the hallway.

"Just in case," Klavdia Petrovna said.

"You should use fishline..."

"We tried. The shoelace is better. And cheaper."

Klavdia led Danilov to her room and asked:

"So what do you want?"

"What do you mean? You called me in the middle of the night..."

"Oh, yes," Klavdia recalled. "All right. Sit down."

She sat down at a dressing table, and began writing with determination on a sheet of stationery. Her pen moved like Peggy Fleming on the ice during the obligatory program; the pen made flourishes that were particularly beautiful. This was Danilov's first time in Klavdia's room at Voinov's apartment.

"You're doing something urgent?" Danilov asked.

"Yes ... I mean, it's an important exercise. I'm writing to the queen of Belgium as Queen Elizabeth. Following a model."

Klavdia handed Danilov a gray book called Diplomatic Ceremony and Protocol and went on making loops. Danilov leafed through the book with great interest. He wouldn't have minded having one himself. There were paragraphs on boutonniиres; seating plans for honored guests at luncheons with ladies and without; and passages on state carriages with facing seats, where the place of honor, he learned, is the back right seat facing traffic. A silk bookmark was in the section on correspondence between monarchs. It offered models for compliments and forms of address to monarchial types. Klavdia, obviously following the advice of the Protocol, was writing a letter to the queen of Belgium.

"What are you doing this for?"

"You never know ..." Klavdia said evasively.

"So you are going to England?"

"Not for now. But this has more than just the British rules, it has French and so on... I may be doing it for no reason at all... just because it's interesting."

"And what did you write to the queen of Belgium?"

"That's our secret," Klavdia said severely.

"Well, I'm off," Danilov said and stood up. He was angry.

In the next room, a botde fell.

"Forgive me," Klavdia begged. "I wasn't lying to you yesterday. I really did feel horrible."

She burst into tears.

Danilov watched Klavdia warily -- was this another trap? He knew what Klavdia's eyes and lips looked like when she was lying. No -- this suffering was real.

"I was so sick of it, I didn't want to go on living... I need you!"

"Did something happen?"

"Nothing... Just... You wear yourself out, and what for? It's all so petty ... empty! Danilov, I wish I could just live simply and for something and with someone faithful by my side! Like you!"

Danilov was touched. "This happens to everyone," he said.

"You're depressed, that's all... You have to go on living.

Your future has great promise..."

"What?" Klavdia asked nervously.

The tears had already dried on her cheeks.

"What," Danilov said carefully, "you know better than I ... or the futecons do ... and you have your main idea ... the ... crazy one..."

"Is it realizable?"

"I don't know ... I don't know what the idea is. I don't know what the futecons have forecast for you twenty years from now."

"Independence!" Klavdia said hotly. "That's my main idea!"

"Independence from what? From whom?"

"Simply Independence! Independence with a capital I!"

"Well, really ..." Danilov was stumped. What else could he say?

Klavdia was still melancholy, but there was energy in her eyes again. That meant she had gotten over her night terrors. Definitely, since she was writing letters to the queen of Belgium. Her tears must have been the mere vestiges.

"Danilov, I have such energy, such desire! If only you knew! But it's all wasted ... it might all peter out... but I could ... maybe I may manage a thing or two..."

"Did the futecons forecast independence for you?

"Yes."

"The futecons are serious people?"

"They are very serious people."

"I can tell that," Danilov said with a sigh.

"Why are you bringing them up? You haven't given them any trouble, have you?"

"Not yet."

"Don't even think of getting in their way. They'll crush you!"

"Don't worry."

"And if they invite you to join the line, accept immediately!"

"Why?"

"There are people in line from your orchestra. They know why."

"Like who?"

Danilov wanted Klavdia to mention the violist Chekhonin. And she did. And according to her, the cellist Turukanov and one of the conductors, whose name she didn't remember.

"I have to think it over," Danilov said.

"There's nothing to think about! At least you'll be able to help me!"

"Where am I supposed to get the dues money?"

"You can get an extra job!"

Danilov didn't intend to get into any line! He should be talking with Pereslegin and Chudetsky, and here he was idly chatting with Klavdia. She really knew how to get him! And he kept coming back! Did he really need to see her? Was that it? Yet she never mentioned his worries or his music. Maybe that was for the better, because he forgot his music for a bit when he was with Klavdia? "I don't know," Danilov said to himself. "I don't know." But it was about time he did.

"Is that gold?" Danilov asked about a locket hanging from a nail under a portrait.

"Gold," Klavdia said. "Luckily, I have friends who can give me presents like that."

There was reproach in her words, but Danilov didn't care. He started for the door, but Klavdia took the locket from the nail, opened it, and handed it to Danilov. Inside was a photo of the parrot from Rostovtsov's shoulder, and a lock of hair -- definitely Rostovtsov's, too.

In the next room a bottle fell and rolled on the floor.

Klavdia walked Danilov to the door. She suddenly noted:

"Damn! I forgot to make you take off your shoes! You've tracked up the floor! Next time take them off as soon as you come in!"

Danilov looked at the floor and didn't see any tracks. "Take them off, sure! What kind of a fool do you think I am? That's how Voinov is going to get his shoelaces."

28

It looked as if Danilov had stopped annoying Pereslegin. And Chudetsky actually said something nice to him once.

Danilov was playing better. He was less tormented by his imperfections. The Palace of Electrical Workers wholeheartedly gave itself up to the ballroom dancing contest, and Chu-detsky's youth orchestra moved to the House of Culture of Medical Workers.

But something else came over Danilov. He began having fears -- that something would get in the way. Not the fute-cons. Or Time X. He never even thought about Time X anymore. Now he feared that he would have an accident or die on the eve of the performance. He laughed at such fears, but with nervous laughter.

Suddenly Danilov became sad and distracted. Chudetsky and Pereslegin were worried.

"What's the matter, Vladimir Alekseyevich?" Chudetsky asked. "Everything was going so well, and now ... our premiere is the day after tomorrow, after all..."

Danilov's viola and bow were literally falling out of his hands.

"I'm tired," Danilov said.

At his own theater, he played the show, and went home to Ostankino. In the shadows near his house he saw Natasha:

"Hello," Natasha said. "I must talk to you. Even if you find talking to me a burden, I still ask that you hear me out..."

"It's cold out here," Danilov said.

They went up to his apartment.

"Volodya," Natasha said, "you may think that I'm forcing myself on you as a friend or lover. You can despise me, it won't change a thing. I could not go on without seeing you and talking it out. I'm not ashamed of coming."

Danilov was silent.

"I don't know whether or not you need me," Natasha said, "but if you don't love me, tell me, and I'll leave."

"What's the matter with me?" thought Danilov. "I'm being so petty."

"Do you need me?" Natasha asked.

"Yes," Danilov said.

"I have no one else."

"Forgive me for my hurtful words and for neglecting you ... but my whole life is up in the air."

"I know what music means to you. I can't be on an equal footing there with you, but I'll try to keep from being a burden for you. I'll do everything I can not to interfere in your music. Don't think I'm going to be nothing but a shadow or a slave -- that would bore you. I won't give up my own life, but I'll be your love and support."

"Thank you, Natasha," Danilov said.

"Just believe my words."

Now Danilov knew for certain that he should part with Natasha forever. He had to protect her from his own fate. But Danilov did not utter a word. And even if he had -- could he have changed anything? Now Natasha was stronger than he.

29

The day of the performance arrived.

Natasha ironed Danilov's tails and trousers; he ironed his black bow tie himself. Danilov couldn't eat a thing. He drank coffee.

Pereslegin called and asked nervously if Danilov had gotten a day off from the theater. Chudetsky was also nervous, and called to suggest that Danilov have his friends come to the club so that it wouldn't be empty.

Yesterday had been full of hassles, and today would be, too. Just as in the theater, when everyone thinks that nothing is ready, if they only had a day or two more, the actors are bad, the scenery is falling apart, and it's certain to be a disaster. But Danilov thrived on such hassles. He would rehearse, rush off somewhere, argue, fight, despair for an instant -- "Ah, the hell with it all!" -- then play some more, polish his shoes, trim his beard, call his friends, talk them out of buying flowers. Impatience scorched Danilov. He was cheery, energetic.

At five Danilov went to the House of Culture of Medical Workers. Natasha planned to arrive after work with Ekater-ina Ivanovna. In the park Danilov looked over the posters. It looked as if there hadn't been enough paper for Pereslegin and Chudetsky.

"I hope the futecons haven't postponed the concert!" Danilov suddenly thought. "I'll show them!" he promised grimly. But he went to the House of Culture in a state of anxiety.

"Has it been postponed?" he asked Pereslegin and Chu-detsky without even saying hello.

"Why?" they asked in surprise.

"Just, uh ..." Danilov said.

But he couldn't relax. He examined his viola -- were the strings intact? And then he went to the stage and looked everything over diligently, as if he were searching for a bomb.

The audience began to come in gradually. The faces in the foyer were unfamiliar to Danilov: doctors, obviously. But then came people he knew: teachers from the conservatory, musicians, music critics. Everyone was met at the door by Chudetsky and Pereslegin. That meant that they had invited them. Then came a certain man who seemed to inspire anxiety in the composer and conductor.

"Did you invite him?" they asked Danilov.

"No," he said. "Who is he?"

"Zabyvalov," Pereslegin answered with a grimace. "Music critic."

"Great," Danilov said.

Zabyvalov, a large man, looked at everyone glumly. "He looks just like Carabos, the bad fairy," thought Danilov, "at Aurora's birthday party." Danilov had seen Zabyvalov in line at the futecons but had not known that he was a music critic. Chudetsky and Pereslegin were expecting some other people, but they hadn't shown up yet. Naturally. The most important people were always late. Or didn't show up at all.

Even though it was stupid, embarrassing even, to stand around in the foyer with his viola, Danilov stayed until his friends came. About forty people. Of course, Natasha came with Ekaterina Ivanovna. Danilov didn't know how to introduce Natasha, but Ekaterina Ivanovna introduced her to his friends, and Danilov realized that they all had known or had guessed anyway. Among the other guests there was Lena Buranova, an old friend of Danilov's and the concert mistress from the Gnessin orchestra. Buranova was expecting a child, and not only one, judging by the looks of her, but two. Everyone occupied themselves with coming up with names for the twins, and male names at that. "Leave me alone!" Buranova said. "I'm going to have a girl named Maryanochka." They asked Danilov to play gently, without too much passion, so that Buranova wouldn't get excited and have the baby right there in the hall -- at least they were in the House of Culture of Medical Workers, though. Danilov joked, too; the bantering conversation made him happy.

By now everyone Danilov was expecting had arrived, and he ran backstage. Someone called after him: "Where's the party going to be afterward?" Danilov turned to reply and saw the ruddy villain Rostovtsov entering. Danilov said nothing about the party and left.

People were already taking their seats, even though there were still crowds around the snack bar. Besides Pereslegin's symphony, the orchestra was going to do Prokofiev's Seventh. At first they had planned to end the concert with Pereslegin, but the composer had nixed the idea. According to Pereslegin, Prokofiev would save the orchestra's reputation even after his failure. "All right," Danilov decided. "I'll be done sooner. Fine."

They announced the symphony. Danilov came out in silence. How he played and what he felt he recalled later and strangely: in fragments, visions, and flashes. And yet he was accustomed to the stage, had played in halls much larger than this, when he had accompanied singers as part of an ensemble or had performed as part of a sextet. But on those occasions he had come onstage calmly, seeing and feeling all that was around him -- every speck of dust on the floorboards, every sigh, every cough in the audience. Here he was locked inside himself, he could not hear himself. No, he did hear, but as a man hears himself when he is in a hurry to speak, or has to shout something very important. Then he does not care whether he speaks beautifully or whether his grammar is correct.

And then -- it was over; his bow grew still and left the strings.

Everything was quiet.

Then everything came to life. The audience applauded loudly, kindly. They even tossed flowers onstage. Danilov took bows. The conductor Chudetsky smiled, shook Danilov's hand, and indicated Danilov to the audience, as if to say, it was all him. Danilov, in his turn, indicated Chudetsky, the French horn player, the clarinetist, the orchestra. They sought out the composer, brought him onstage, and applauded him, too.

"Is that it?" Danilov asked Pereslegin.

"But Vladimir Alexeyevich," Pereslegin said almost as an apology, "it ran forty-four minutes. How much more could it be?"

"No, that's not what I mean. The sound broke off so abruptly, in midstream..."

In the green room Pereslegin embraced Danilov, then jumped back and said seriously: "You played more than I wrote ... you created something powerful! Terrifying, proud, lofty ..."

"How could I play more than what you wrote?" Danilov said with surprise. "And I didn't play it, the orchestra did, I was the soloist -- "

"Don't argue with me," Pereslegin said. "I heard every-thing, even though I was hiding in a corner... You didn't play that way at rehearsals ... though that's understandable..."

Danilov was having his doubts anyway, and he surreptitiously looked at his bracelet. No, he had been fully human onstage. An important musician came over and announced to Pereslegin:

"Sir, your work will revolutionize music -- "

"No, no!" Pereslegin almost screeched. "Why do you say that?! My music is the most traditional ... well, some contemporary rhythms and voices may have been included, that's all -- "

"My dear sir," the great musician said, shaking his head, "it just seems that way to you." Here he bowed to Danilov. "And your playing, young man, is like no other."

He excused himself, saying that a lady awaited him in the lobby, and left.

"Yes, like no other!" Pereslegin said disappointedly. "Polite words."

Chudetsky ran in and asked if Danilov and Pereslegin would be listening to the Prokofiev and, if so, from where. Danilov said from the audience. But he felt that he couldn't listen to anything else today; he would gladly have headed for home, but that wouldn't have been fair to the other musicians. He waited for the third bell and quietly went into the theater. He left his viola backstage -- what did it matter now? He sat on a hard chair and came back to his senses. It was like decompressing after coming up from a deep pit. He no longer felt tired; he grew more and more excited, and even though he felt that he had played well, he now wanted to play Pereslegin's symphony again right there and then. He began humming his part. People shushed him in the dark.

"Excuse me," Danilov muttered, returning to reality.

The orchestra was playing Prokofiev. Danilov liked Prokofiev, but he had a hard time controlling himself. "If they only let me back onstage now!" And then the Prokofiev ended.

Danilov ran onstage to congratulate the orchestra members and Chudetsky, but he couldn't find the appropriate words. He just mumbled something joyous. Of course, no one seemed to expect appropriate words; warm feelings were needed, that was all. And Danilov had warm feelings.

Then everyone started trying to figure out whether they should all go somewhere and whether they should all go together. Danilov looked for Pereslegin, but he had vanished. Or was hiding in some corner. Danilov's friends were in the lobby, and they started telling him again how good he looked onstage with his viola and bow tie, the picture of a dashing musician. Muravlyov rebuked Danilov for his lack of passion: Buranova had been excited by his playing, but not enough to give birth.

"Where is Buranova?" asked Danilov.

She had been sent home in a car.

"Well, then, shall we go to my place?" Muravlyov asked, rubbing his hands. "My wife has prepared a few things..."

"How about to Volodya's? There's something to eat there, too..." Natasha offered meekly.

"Really, let's go to my place!" Danilov said.

So as not to hurt Muravlyov's wife's feelings, they compromised. Muravlyov was sent home to get the food. "Use the backpack, the backpack!" Tamara, his wife, begged, and the rest of the group took a streetcar to Danilov's. They stayed till after midnight. Danilov was excited, would jump up, run to the kitchen, carry in glasses, salads on platters, talk to people, and listen to all kinds of things. Several expressed serious opinions about the music, his playing, and even though all the members of the group were not professional musicians, Danilov found their ideas apt. And then in one instant, Danilov's nervous state vanished and he felt as if he were going to fall asleep. Through a dream Danilov heard people arguing, laughing, the glass and metal clink of dishes and tableware, the buzz of women's conversation, Natasha's sweet voice. Ah, how good he felt! Danilov opened his eyes. Ekaterina Ivanovna was dancing with Eremchenko. Snow was falling outside. Muravlyov was waving his arms to make a point with Kostyurina. And next to them was Rostovtsov. "How did he get here?" Danilov thought. "What is he doing here?" And Danilov fell back asleep. As he slept, he saw himself coming onstage at the House of Culture of Medical Workers. And he heard his viola.

30

In the morning, the snow had melted.

Yawning, Danilov stood by the window and stretched.

His apartment was clean; the table was back in its place, the dishes washed. Only the flowerpot on the windowsill had cigarette ashes in its soil. Apparently Muravlyov had poked his cigarette at the cactus while he was arguing.

Natasha wasn't there. Danilov called her, but she had left for work.

Had he really played at the House of Culture of Medical Workers yesterday? Here were the flowers: narcissus and lilies in crystal. He had held roses yesterday, too, but he gave them away to the ladies.

Danilov took the elevator down to the mailboxes and got the newspapers. Mercenaries were fighting in Angola; Karpov was torturing Polugayevsky; Maltsev, using his "goal plus pass" system, had made twenty-seven points and moved up to fourth place. Looking through the papers, Danilov felt depressed. He hadn't really expected any reviews, but actually ... Well, not from Sports, perhaps; they didn't even give the Maltsev story a lot of play. But at least Culture or Moscow Pravda could have given Pereslegin's symphony and its performers a paragraph. Or at least a line in "Cultural Notes." But they didn't.

"What am I doing?" Danilov was furious with himself. "The papers don't review even celebrities right away, and here I am looking for an article about me, and on the next day at that!" Admit it: What kind of event was last night's at the House of Culture of Medical Workers really? Third rate, if Klavdia did not deem it essential to appear. Danilov recalled how eager she had been to see the blue bull...

Below on the street cars drove past, people hurried by carrying bags and briefcases. The wind blew the yellow coop sand down the slippery sidewalks, and pushed the careworn citizens -- to their jobs, their classes, their worries. How had Danilov's music changed their lives? What could it change? Apparently nothing ... Danilov was exhausted and empty. Music seemed repulsive to him.

Danilov sat on the couch in his quilted robe and rested his chilled soul. He didn't need music, and he didn't need himself. He didn't need anyone.

The phone rang.

"Hello, Volodya," Zemsky said. "I was there, I was at your performance!"

"Why did you bother, Nikolai Borisovich, since Pereslegin's music stands in direct contradiction to your own?"

"I'm a curious man. And I'm tolerant of other artistic ideas. Let them be heard. You played with authority."

"Thank you, Nikolai Borisovich."

"And boldly. As if you were arguing with someone. Was it with me?"

"No, Nikolai Borisovich, I wasn't arguing with you. I was just playing, that's all. As best I could ..."

"Now you must learn to play as best you can't. Then, at the very least, you'll play as best you can. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Nikolai Borisovich."

"Play, play, go farther ... you'll be a great artist," Zemsky said. "And then you'll reach the limit. You'll ask yourself: 'And now where?' But there'll be no farther to go. You'll step into the impossible, the void, and you'll reach silencism... That's how it is... I'm not trying to scare you or upset you, I'm speaking without malice... By the way, was there any harmony in yesterday's music? You played brilliantly, but was there harmony?"

"I was striving for harmony."

"And?" Zemsky said.

"Your theories and dreams, Nikolai Borisovich -- are they a search for harmony, too, however unique it may be?"

"Volodya," Zemsky said with a sigh, "you're still young and raw ... you have a lot of suffering to do..."

And with this Nikolai Borisovich ended the conversation.

Zemsky's call had perked up Danilov. He thought, "You played with authority -- and Zemsky is a harsh critic!" Danilov even got up and paced the room. Now he dreamed of more calls, especially from Pereslegin and Chudetsky. "No," Danilov said to himself, "I was okay! So what if it didn't change the world. Nothing could. I played as I never have before. And on an ordinary viola. Why shouldn't I be pleased with myself today?"

"Why didn't Natasha leave me a note?" Danilov thought. Now he was sorry that Natasha had left with the other guests. Danilov understood that it probably was for the best that Natasha intended to live her own life, even though she was now involved with him. But still, Danilov felt almost insulted.

The phone rang.

"Hello, this is Valentin Sergeyevich."

"Which Valentin Sergeyevich?" Danilov asked as his confusion gave way to wariness.

"One guess."

"Well," Danilov said, "to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

"Nothing ... Well, perhaps a trifle ... Why bother to talk about it?... I'm not calling on business... our business lies ahead ... and it's important!... I was just calling... for my own peace of mind and to clear up a certain vile misapprehension on your part... I shouldn't even be calling -- this conversation is so private. I may get chewed out for this, but I couldn't wait..."

"Well?" Danilov said.

"You're triumphant now..."

"Why?"

"The way you played! And also because you think that you played that way yesterday as an ordinary mortal. Without using any demonic abilities. It's true, you didn't touch your bracelet. So what? You yourself must realize that you were completely engrossed in your music yesterday! All of you! Including the part that's a demon on contract. Your entire being sounded yesterday with its entire history. How could any mortal compete?"

"Are you through?" Danilov asked.

"Of course, I'm a petty creature," Valentin Sergeyevich said with a giggle, "and it's not my place to get involved with music ... but I couldn't control myself... You can call my words empty, inspired by hostility or envy... Please, go right ahead!"

"Why don't you just return my instrument?" Danilov said.

"Which instrument?"

"The stolen one. The Albani."

"What Albani? We don't have any Albani!" Valentin Sergeyevich screeched. "Talk to the police! The police! What Albani?"

Valentin Sergeyevich's unexpected, almost fishmongering scream was interrepted by the dial tone.

Everything was clear now: He had been left alone for a brief period, for reasons unknown, and now they were reminding him who he was and what awaited him. Despair engulfed Danilov. "What bad timing," he said with a moan. But then when would have been good timing? Now it seemed to Danilov that he could have handled Time X better two months ago. Why worry about it? ...

Danilov quickly convinced himself not to whine, or give up, but to live for the moment. Thoughts of Time X dissipated. He probably shouldn't have mentioned his Albam to Valentin Sergeyevich. Demanding his stolen instrument from a crook was pointless and pathetic.

Suddenly it all did not matter. He wanted to get away from everything. From music most of all. The hell with it! It all seemed vanity to Danilov. Really, getting up onstage as a soloist at his age, thirty-five. He might have played well, but so what? Now what? What?

On the other hand, why think about the future, if Valentin Sergeyevich had called?

Danilov was crushed. It was torture to think of ever picking up the viola again. But he picked it up and went to the theater. He did the matinee and the evening show. As he played, he no longer remembered his morning musings.

Danilov's colleagues did not talk about the previous night's concert. How could they know about the cultural life of medical workers! However, the cellist Turukanov asked in the last intermission if the doctors had paid him well, and was upset to learn that Danilov, like the other orchestra members, had played for free.

"Really, Danilov," Turukanov said, shaking his head, "You're not a kid anymore..."

"No, I'm not," Danilov agreed.

"Well, then," Turukanov added, "those doctors, and especially the dentists, rake in the dough..."

After the performance Danilov locked up the viola in the fireproof locker. He didn't need it at home.

31

Danilov finally saw Pereslegin and Chudetsky. Pereslegin did not want to write anything else ever again and called himself talentless. "How can you say that?" Chudetsky countered. "The audience liked your work and Konstantinov and Vegener praised you." "Was it me they praised?" Pereslegin said animatedly. "What did I have to do with it? You and Danilov turned my notes into music. Chudetsky joked and said that in a month's time Pereslegin would be back, writing more for the viola. From Chudetsky Danilov also learned that great musicians had praised his playing. Danilov had astounded them. Showed new possibilities for the viola. Had reminded them of something they'd forgotten. Klavdia Petrovna even demanded to know why he hadn't invited her to the House of Culture of Medical Workers. "What was there to be invited to?" Danilov said with a certain degree of feigned surprise. "I'm mad at you," Klavdia said. "People are talking, and I wasn't there."

Chudetsky said that probably they would be able to repeat the program -- if not at the House of Culture of Medical Workers, then at the Palace of Flour Millers.

Then the critic Zabyvalov manifested himself. Writing in a certain newspaper -- not the most interesting or important, but still one they paste on windows -- Zabyvalov's "reply" was small. Its size was a reflection of the insignificance of the concert at the House of Culture of Medical Workers. The title was a rebuke: "Who's Been Given the Stage?" Zabyvalov called on the carpet in strong, sarcastic language the club's administration for an irresponsible attitude toward a public treasure -- that is, the stage and auditorium. The administration should be providing a forum for national talent instead of giving space and time to certain enterprising musicians who had nothing in their souls. In passing it mentioned a dubious and pretentious composition by one Pereslegin. Danilov was not even named.

Pereslegin grew depressed. Chudetsky smiled and said "This was to be expected," and insisted that the orchestra repeat the entire program.

Danilov was disappointed by the absence of his name in the reply. Even being criticized was better than not being mentioned. This made him a zero. The next morning Danilov got a call from the futecons' skewbald secretary.

"Vladimir Alexeyevich," the secretary said, "have you changed your mind?"

Danilov wanted to insult the secretary and do something nasty to the futecons, but he controlled himself.

"In the past few days," Danilov said, "I haven't had time to even think about it."

"I hope you appreciated Zabyvalov's tact -- your name is not in the article."

"I'm very grateful."

"We haven't done anything bad to you yet, but we're letting you know...."

"I understood you the first time."

"But it might have been all different. Your name might have been on everybody's lips."

"Everybody?"

"Why not? At least in musical circles ... And now it seems to me that Chudetsky's idea to repeat the program is rather naпve...."

"You're certain of that?"

"Vladimir Alexeyevich, you might note that today we are not threatening or harassing you. We are simply reminding you of our existence."

The skewbald man was actually speaking politely, not brazenly.

"We haven't really messed anything up for you yet, just trifles. We've decided to wait," the skewbald man added, almost with affection for Danilov.

"All right," Danilov said. "I'll think about it."

"When should I call you?"

"In two days," Danilov said and hung up.

He decided to wait, too, and not to begin a campaign against the futecons now. The confutes! They spared him. Hah! But they vented their spleen on -- or showed their strength against -- the innocent Chudetsky and Pereslegin. That was brave of them!

It had snowed again. The temperature was eight below, and Danilov decided to go skiing. The snow was better than it had been all winter. And yet it would soon be spring. It was a pleasure stepping on this snow; it crunched.

Danilov covered some fifteen kilometers in Ostankino Park before he got tired. If he had had more time, he would have gone to his beloved Sokolniki Park. This park was crowded, and senior citizens were walking on the ski trails. But the snow was fine. It hadn't crunched like that for the past three winters. Once, when he was young and carefree, Danilov had made a good snowfall in Moscow. With drifts and a frost. He continued to be embarrassed by the excesses of his youth. Maybe that was a mistake, maybe he should still use his demonic capabilities in winter. Muscovites missed the snow and the frost; they would have been happy to have it. While the Chancery from the Other World probably would give him points for making tilings colder. Maybe Valentin Sergeyevich would have to grit his teeth as he put those points in his ledger.

Danilov thought about Valentin Sergeyevich, and it upset him so that he removed his skis and tied them up.

Danilov was thirsty. He went into a beer hall on Korolyov Street, and quickly had a mug of beer, and a second, and realized that he shouldn't have. At the next table teenagers were being rowdy -- Danilov figured they were about seventeen. They were all drunk. Five boys and two girls. Skinny and made-up, the girls were frisky and playful and kept kissing the boys. Perhaps the boys they were trying to kiss weren't their dates. One had curly hair showing beneath his shaggy fox hat and was wearing bell-bottoms. Like the other boys, he was over six feet tall. Suddenly he tugged his pink girlfriend by the arm and slapped her face hard. Danilov almost spilled his beer. But apparently, despite any misunderstandings, the group was having a good time. The young ladies squealed with delight at the boys' jokes. They even squealed cutely. They had nice faces. Their companions hugged them, and pinched and caressed them, and didn't waste time trying to figure out chivalrous words either; thev settled for the words they knew best. After a while two of the boys and one of the girls came over to Danilov. Two of them stopped a litde distance from Danilov, but the fellow in the fox hat whispered confidentially right into Danilov's face:

"Listen, mister, give me three rubles. We don't have enough for wine. Or else buy two bottles of vermouth and join us. Our girls will be good to you."

"Young man," Danilov said, "do you place such a cheap price on your ladies -- three rubles apiece? As for your proposition, thanks anyway, but it sounds like a lousy deal."

"What?" The boy lurched forward and practically grabbed him by the lapels.

The other boy also frowned and took a step forward.

"What?" shouted the fellow in the fox hat. He unbuttoned his leather coat, and his white knit scarf fell to the ground. "I'll show you! ... We'll show you! ... Let's go outside!" he ordered Danilov.

Danilov wouldn't have gone, but he realized that if reports were written up on this incident and they eventually reached the theater, the place of action -- a beer hall -- would automatically put Danilov's morals in question. Even if they believed that Danilov was in the right, there still would be a cloud of suspicion. A cultural worker, and look where he was brawling...

"Let's go," Danilov said with a sigh.

Danilov was in a daze; it seemed as if everything was being done without him. The gang was dragging him, their drunken eyes left him no hope. Danilov could have handled two or three boys, but there were more of them, and even the girls were shouting militantly. On the right Danilov saw a knife in someone's hand... The group tightened around him.

"You bastard!"

Danilov dropped his skis, pushed the boy away, and moved the link on his bracelet.

Passersby and people at their windows, who had hoped to see something interesting, were amazed by the turn of events. Not only was there no killing, but also the boys suddenly seemed transformed into children's social workers whose main goal was moral order and spiritual perfection. With exclamations of apology they rushed to pick up Danilov's skis, but there weren't enough to go around.

"I won't detain you any longer," Danilov said.

As he reached his apartment house, he remembered the article by the critic Zabyvalov. It's a good thing he hadn't lost his head as he just had with the teenagers and responded to Zabyvalov by using his bracelet link. It wasn't Zabyvalov's fault. He had merely showed himself loyal to the futecon movement. Nothing else. Maybe he even sincerely meant what he wrote in the review. Maybe he really thought that the stage and auditorium of the House of Culture of Medical Workers had been turned over to bad musicians. Well, whether that was so or not, the fact remained that the futecons were annoying Danilov. Still, he had to put up with it for now.

32

As Danilov opened his door, he was singed by the foreboding of evil. Something had happened or was about to happen. His apartment radiated heat and a foul smell. Danilov rushed to the kitchen, and there on the table on a porcelain platter, which someone had taken from the dish cupboard, lay a lacquered card with crimson signs. After a second, Danilov got up the courage to walk to the table and read the blazing words: "Time X. Tonight. Quarter to one. Banny Alley trolley station. House 67."

"Well, that's it," thought Danilov and sat down on a stool. The lacquered note vanished; it was no longer needed. "That's it," Danilov repeated to himself.

He didn't have much time. He'd need twenty-five minutes or so for the streetcar. Maybe more. They didn't run frequently at that hour, and he'd have to wait at least fifteen minutes. In cases like this it would not do to call a taxi.

Danilov looked over his earthly disposition and letters, which he had prepared on the eve of his duel with Karmadon. He was satisfied with them. Klavdia might even remember him with warm feelings. But, of course, what did it matter to him?

Natasha... he should call her. But Danilov could not pick up the phone receiver. He walked up to it, but then walked away from it. Not only because he was so upset, not only from fear of hurting Natasha. He also was afraid that his call might endanger her. Actually, how much could a farewell call add to Valentin Sergeyevich's evidence against him?

Danilov picked up the receiver.

Natasha did not answer right away; she must have been having trouble with her sewing machine or perhaps with the marquisette blouse, which had urgently been commissioned by a woman engineer, a friend of the Muravlyovs. Natasha sounded tired.

"Natasha," Danilov said, trying to sound firm but stammering nevertheless, "thank you for everything. Not another word."

He hung up.

Danilov's viola was at the theater in the fireproof locker, so he went over to the piano and began playing. He did not know what he was playing; his hands moved automatically. It was the music of despair.

At ten to twelve, Danilov got up, looked through his papers once more, and caressed the cover of his piano. His touch was light, fleeting. He no longer had any ties to the instrument -- the instrument had lost its sound. Danilov put on his coat and hat, made sure all the lights were out, checked the gas, slowly locked up, and rang for the elevator.

33

The streetcar, as Danilov had predicted, took a long time to come. It was chilly and damp. The snow had melted toward evening. At last the streetcar came. It had a new type of automatic dispenser. Danilov put in a five-kopeck coin and pulled the metal handle, but the ticket didn't come out. Danilov turned toward the only passenger, who was not sober and apparently was meditating on his nonsobriety. Danilov said guiltily, "It won't give me a ticket."

"Ah!" the passenger said with a wave of his hand. He did not look at Danilov, however.

"Is that Rostovtsov?" thought Danilov. No, the passenger was there by chance, a gloomy man who drank out of grief or habit. "I never went to the police!" Danilov remembered. Now the case of his viola would become one of the unsolved cases mat would be a blot on Precinct 58's record. This cheered Danilov a bit.

"Why am I worrying about trifles?" Danilov thought. "Only two stops to go. I should be thinking lofty thoughts." And here Danilov realized something -- the idea, of course, should not have been new to him: He was being observed. They could see everything. His every thought and impulse, however brief and insubstantial, were clear to them. How humiliating to realize that! What torment! Even if now he used sheer willpower to calm himself, that moral tension would be seen and analyzed.

The streetcar reached Banny Alley.

Danilov got up. Without knowing why, he looked over uncertainly at the contemplative passenger. The passenger did not look up. "What if he misses his stop?" Danilov thought.

"Excuse me, please," Danilov said. "Where are you getting off? You might end up in the parking garage."

"Don't miss your stop!" the man said almost as a challenge. "You're the one who has to get off, not me. Get off, and they'll take you to the parking garage anyway. But there are chandeliers there..."

Danilov turned up his collar. He felt chilly. The clock on the corner of Bolnichny Alley showed twenty-four to one. Along the next block, a streetcar rattled on its tracks, apparently headed to Rostokino for a rest. "Is that drunk the last human I will ever see?" thought Danilov glumly. He had nine minutes of earthly existence left; house 67 stood a hundred yards away.

House 67, like its neighbor, house 69, had three stories, and a tall arch leading into the courtyard on the left. In the arch about seven yards from the sidewalk was the door Danilov was looking for. Once upon a time there had been a house on the left of house 67, and the door in the archway had led to a steep staircase. But fifteen years ago the old house had been razed, and replaced with a soft-drink stand and a basketball court, though now the backboards were warped, the hoops bent, and a table was set up in the middle of the court for aficionados of dominoes and hard drinking. The door to the razed house remained, however. It had not been boarded up, and if you went up the three steps of the former stoop, you could open the door and step into the sky.

Who had noticed, Danilov didn't know, but for the past twelve years the only way to go to the Nine Layers on a special summons was through this door. Danilov used to regard such directives with cynicism; there was something so theatrical and artificial about them, something that could impress only a child. But now the cynicism was gone. House 67 was a horrible sight at night, pathetic and evil. During the daytime you didn't notice it. Ordinary people lived in it. But now it was depressing. Nearby, house 71 was huge and grim; its heavy gray columns seemed like the stone legs of some urban monster.

The entranceway was gloomy and reeked of cats and rotten cabbage. Danilov observed that those summoned had to spend their last moments on Earth feeling demeaned by this clichйed spot, had to remember Earth as a lousy place, and sense their own helplessness. This was a boundary, the preparation for a switch to a state even more dismal, and perhaps into nothingness. Danilov stepped on something slippery and smelly and almost fell. He cursed, and scraped his foot on the asphalt, trying to clean his shoe. Then he stepped up on the stoop. Pulled the door handle. The door did not give. Danilov bent over. Three nails, apparently hammered in by the janitor, held the door fast. The house committee must have noticed that the orphaned door was flapping in the wind. Danilov didn't have any tools for removing nails; he took off his gloves and tried to loosen the nails but managed only to cut up his fingers. He was upset and worried that he might be late. Then he remembered his bracelet. "What's the matter with me?" thought Danilov. "How was I planning to travel, anyway?" He switched the bracelet; the nails flew out of the boards and disappeared. Danilov opened the door. Immediately, without giving himself a second to hesitate, he stepped in.

34

Something spun him, squeezed him, hit him, something crunched, perhaps inside him, threads were tearing, chains rattling, whirlwinds whipped around him, mountains fell on him or he fell into boiling craters. Danilov was hurt and afraid.

But Danilov arrived where he was supposed to -- not far from Nine Layers, in the Well of Anticipation, known to him from hearsay. It was dark. Not just dark -- pitch black. He felt as if he were surrounded on all four sides by walls -- actually there weren't any, but you couldn't go beyond those nonexistent walls. He knew that the Well extended infinitely up and down; there was no floor or ceiling. But Danilov could not fly or swim in it. At first Danilov thought he was not allowed to change positions, but unable to take the suspense of not knowing, he straightened his legs slightly and lowered his arms. He expected swift retribution, but none followed. That meant he could! This freedom, however tiny, made him happy.

In the blackness of the Well, nothing happened. And, in all probability, nothing was supposed to happen. The blackness and forced inactivity, the sensation of his own impotence, the anticipation of the horrors to come were meant to exhaust him.

He did not feel time, the time that could be flowing, exploding, stopping, or spiraling in the Nine Layers. This demoralized Danilov, undermined his spirit and readiness to meet the unexpected. Consequently he was incapable of resisting the unexpected. Danilov realized that if he created within himself a way of keeping Earth time, he would feel stronger. So he did. Now, if only in a trifling matter, he was master of his own state. He established the time in the Well to which he was accustomed. He counted hour after hour, and after each he said to himself: "Well, I survived this hour, too..." Days passed (in terms of Earth measurement, though on Earth, Danilov supposed, not even a second had gone by.) Danilov kept counting...

At last a vision appeared: the hardworking messenger Valentin Sergeyevich, wearing a shabby worn sheepskin jacket and felt boots, and carrying a broom in his hand. He was also wearing a dark, patched apron and a janitor's insignia no longer used in Moscow. Valentin Sergeyevich lowered the broom and began sweeping up the smelly, rotten objects that had depressed Danilov in his last minutes on Earth. Valentin Sergeyevich did not do a very good job, and in effect he did not sweep up anything at all. He stayed in one spot, and his broom repeated the same movement. Danilov could hear sounds, too: Valentin Sergeyevich's snuffling, his sighs, something rustling on the pavement. Valentin Sergeyevich, who had not noticed Danilov before, suddenly gave him a reproachful look and shook his finger at him. He made a face at Danilov, too: Well, you got yours, you bastard! But then they must have said something to him, and Valentin Sergeyevich hunched over and quietly went away, his janitor's badge clearly visible, his whole image seeming to say: Yes, of course, I remember, I remember, I'm nothing, I've done my job, and that's it...

There was no sound for a long time. Danilov hummed the viola part of Pereslegin's symphony to himself. Then he stopped. Either he was too weak or too depressed. He now felt like a small child who looked at the adults with tears in his eyes: "Why are you punishing me? What have I ever done bad to you?" Danilov really did want to become small and defenseless (actually, he was defenseless already) and to have someone strong cuddle him or at least take pity on him and forgive his mischief and naughtiness. Danilov would probably have shaved off his beard. If they had asked. But no sign of sympathy was forthcoming.

He still heard nothing. The scraping of Valentin Sergeye-vich's broom, his sighs and snuffling now seemed like an unintentional but priceless gift. What if Time X had already started? And what if it consisted of eternal silence? "That's not fair!" Danilov got upset. "They can't do that! They have to explain what they're doing and why to me!" But he immediately sensed that his indignation, just like his readiness to shave his beard, was in itself meaningless and only showed him up as a weak character.

He shut his eyes, but through the closed lids he saw a movement nearby -- either shadows were slipping past, or the bandages removed from someone's unhealed wounds were fluttering. Danilov opened his eyes wearily and reluctantly.

Immediately whirlwinds of light streamed past Danilov and violent blisters burst inside them. The whirlwinds gained strength and depth -- the depth of billions of Earth kilometers. But the black walls remained. If he reached out he could probably touch them, though naturally, without feeling anything.

Here he remembered that some time back -- he had stopped keeping track! -- he had made Pereslegin's music sound inside himself. But the music had stopped. Had he such a weak will? Was he not his own master? Was he too busy watching visions? No! Danilov decided that the normal course of life would be restored immediately to himself. Through willpower he forced himself to keep time, and a Handel's passacaglia played inside him in a classical sextet.

The visions attacked him again.

The violet bubbles were expanding and bursting, vicious whirlwinds swirled around and sometimes attacked them, and the resulting explosions blinded Danilov. Fiery tongues and fragments from the explosions flew off for billions of kilometers. The explosions went on and on, but then finally diminished in frequency, as if their element were quieting down. Finally it was calm, and an ordered system of forms and lines appeared in hot, nervous streams at first. Now a slightly distorted, shimmering disk hung before Danilov and spun on an invisible axis, and inside, glowing spirals maintained a quiet motion and shimmered at their tops. Danilov saw this in all directions, in distances measured not in billions of kilometers but in centuries and millennia. There hung and twirled, floated and moved other disks, spirals, constellations of glowing and black dust particles -- planets and stars. Danilov felt like a giant who could walk over them, as if they were the knolls of the wet peat bogs around Shatura or Egoryvsk. Step on them and maybe master them. There was just one little thing missing: permission to step out of the Well of Anticipation.

Immediately Danilov felt again that he was no giant, but a pathetic creature, bewildered and afraid, a flea before these gigantic galaxies and universes and the course of their destinies. Danilov felt a chill run through him. The sextet, which Danilov was forcing to play the passacaglia inside his head to resist the pressure from the investigators, grew still. The disks and spirals vanished, and a tiny dot glimmered in the blackness. It grew, or else Danilov shrank. Danilov realized that he had been put inside the dot -- not just a dot! -- inside the nucleus of some crummy atom that didn't interest even scientists! Or even more humiliating -- inside a simple particle that knew no peace or direction on Earth but that here in the Well was obedient and still. Now, inside that particle or nucleus, Danilov imagined the shimmering disks, those crystal constructions, and he seemed to perceive their movements and foresee the space plan of their orbits, and for some reason Karmadon's mean, haughty face flashed before him, as it had been on the ski slopes of Sokolniki Park.

Suddenly the disk shattered, the crystal grids began to list. Icy spheres and spires fell from them, exploding or melting as they fell. Before Danilov sat a shoemaker, a snub-nosed peasant of fifty or so from Mariana Roshcha, a tough Moscow neighborhood. He was repairing a pair of canvas espadrilles, the kind worn in Moscow in the late 1940s by dandies who whitened them with toothpowder. The shoemaker had a black leather apron on his lap and nails in his mouth, even though he didn't need nails to repair espadrilles. A gray mongrel jumped around his feet. The dog remotely resembled the Muravlyovs' dog, Salyut. The shoemaker looked over his work lovingly, decided he was pleased, and handed it to the dog.

The dog obligingly took the shoes and ate them. Then, with one paw, it pulled over the shoemaker and ate him too. It licked its chops, grimaced, and spat out the leather apron and the nails. It yawned and left. There were five nails. "But he had six in his mouth," Danilov remembered. "So what? What do I care?!"

The apron and nails lay scattered in the emptiness before Danilov for a long time. The main action now was performed by numerous objects, things, and machines. A suitcase, a wardrobe, a coal-cutter loader, metal clothes hangers, an airplane ramp, an asphalt spreader, bathroom fixtures of astonishing blue, a Jaguar XKE, a toy railroad with tunnels and switches, a dentist's drill and spit sink, and a hole puncher for office use ...

Of course Danilov did not have time to look at everything, nor did he want to; the machines and objects kept coming, shoving one another aside with rather chaotic movements. Often they fell apart. Sometimes they energetically and neatly reconstituted in their original shapes. But sometimes the parts did not return to their original states; either they couldn't, or there was no need to. Their movements went completely berserk. Something was happening. Danilov could not understand exactly what at first, but then the boards, shields, panels, glass, metal joints and blocks, lamps, porcelain semicircles, pinions, gears, spark plugs, wooden legs, and wheels formed almost living creatures, extremely varied, each with its own shape, walk, bearing, sometimes lithe and stealthy, sometimes thick and viscous, heavy and sleepy, with fuel oil for eyes -- and Danilov realized what was going on. Before him were the essences of die things and machines that had managed to get into the Well of Anticipation, into Danilov's current space and time. Freed of their bodies and functions, they could manifest the urges and passions stagnating inside diem. Aggressive, persistent, greedy, pushy, crowding, diey were crumpling and trampling the shoemaker's black apron left behind by the dog. Danilov was certain: It had not been taken away by accident, through the carelessness of the investigators. In the things' gestures, leaps, and pounces there were passion, triumph, and also pettiness.

"They've probably trampled the nails, too," thought Danilov. But he could no longer see the nails or the apron. The tempo of the unbalanced things' movements kept increasing; there were more and more of them, and each and every one tried angrily to break through to the center of the crowd, as if the forgotten apron were crucial to them. Unexpectedly a ring of fiery letters danced overhead: "Dried caviar, 1 ruble, 80 kopecks. Temruk Fish and Cannery." Now it looked as if some of the bulbs were burning out in the fiery ring, or something had gone wrong at the control panel; some of the letters went out, and then the whole ring vanished. Nothing happened to the dancing, screaming crowd. Except right in the middle, in the mush and heat, something probably was happening, perhaps some of the speediest and most persistent figures were being destroyed, squashed by the crush of newcomers, just born and wanting to transform themselves into animate existence.

But then the stampers, pushers, and squeezers underwent a transformation. Something new was arising. And the new was immediately transformed, too. The back half of a Chevrolet was combined with the torso and legs of an artiodactyl -- which species in particular, Danilov was not willing to hazard. Deer antlers ornamented a miniature powder compact. From the single fluttering wing of a cabbage moth the size of a bedspread a padlock dangled like an earring. A gramophone horn nestled up to the tentacles of a cheap, synthetic octopus, and small farmer's cheeses in dull brown foil leapt out of the horn, only to fall back in.

Then came faces familiar to Danilov from Earth superstitions and tall tales by people with vivid imaginations: vampires, werewolves, and toothless cannibals, who had scared little boys; and a melancholy monster with orange foam on its gums; and Fantomas, and Frankenstein monsters, and cheap strumpet witches from the Tyrolean Mountains; and blue drowned corpses, lured once upon a time by mermaids; and with them dead mermaids, victims of water pollution; and fierce darmapals, with seven faces and twenty arms and a multitude of eyes -- they wore tiger skins, crowns of human skulls, and necklaces taken from chopped-off heads -- some held a mongoose in one hand, others a carrot; and a white, three-eyed czamvala, with fiery hair and a wild green scarf, who controlled twilight; and obnoxious assurs, and sneaky apsars, whose dance, once glimpsed, is enough to make you want to die; and black idols, and voluptuous bugbears, nervous with mange, from the equator; and grim hounds from the underworld with eyes like saucers; and bats with drool perpetually dripping onto their poorly tied neckties. Everybody showed up!

All at once, one of these phantoms was bouncing around on a motorcycle and running down his neighbors. Another was blowing on the saxophone. A third put on a bikini made of crow's nests. Someone else was gnawing on mercury-vapor lamps, someone was dashing about in an orange suit that protected against radiation fallout and poison gas, someone was waving a harpoon, and someone else was firing on the crowd with a thirteen-barrel howitzer. All hell had broken loose!

In the ever-increasing crowd, Danilov began to make out clearly unrelated visions. Here and there, as if on separate screens, luminous moving pictures appeared, and the subjects of all were equally unpleasant to Danilov. A child was being cut up by a knife as his blood poured into a bucket. On a forest-covered mountaintop, a Cossack rode out on his raven steed, a sleeping page behind him; the Cossack threw a livid corpse into an abyss, and the bony fingers of yellow skeletons grabbed the corpse and began choking it; a huge buried blackened skeleton desperately tried to chew its way up through the ground to get at the corpse, but in vain; it suffered, tormented by its impotence, and the mountains shook and houses tumbled. On another screen a beautiful woman, very young, was immured in a tower; she struggled, trying to escape her doom, but brick after brick sealed the niche, and gray mortar held them tight. On another, mines fell in a green valley, shards of metal and chunks of flesh filled the air; the people who were still alive ran about and stabbed one another; thick clouds of dust were raised by the shells and bombs; a black spider crawled along the cold neck of a corporal lying face down in the grass. A tidal wave washed away people, breaking rocks behind a wall. A tree that had miraculously survived died in the burned-out earth. And here Danilov sensed a new twist in the visions -- if visions they were. Potent smells intensified -- a reek of burned things and diabolical chemistry.

The black void was replaced by crimson. In the distance fiery white peaks, which had not been there before, exploded and collapsed. The crowd of wild creatures was now swirled and beaten into a lump and mashed with cruel, hooked fingers by an element hostile to them. Then there were more explosions, stronger and more horrible than before. Now Danilov was shaken. He realized a catastrophe was imminent: the end of everything he could see or perhaps to everything in which he existed. The creatures and phantoms were dying, vanishing, the violet blisters were swelling up, everything was turning to dust, and once again Danilov saw the floating spirals, disks, galaxies, and planets. There motion grew somnolent, as if everything were turning to ice. Danilov was not cold, but he felt icy and doomed. The blackness and stillness took him into itself.

Then he woke up. For how many minutes or centuries he had not been alive, he did not know. He was in emptiness. To the left there seemed to be the glimmer of dawn. "What's that lying over there?" Actually, he saw clearly what it was: the shoemaker's leather apron. Danilov wanted to walk or float over to it, but he could not twitch or quiver a single muscle. The apron vanished.

"Did they forget to take it away out of carelessness," thought Danilov, "or did they leave it for a reason? But what meaning is there to that apron?" What could he say in response? Nothing. He had to consider it a miracle that he still existed. He tried to marshal his willpower again by keeping track of time, by re-creating music inside himself -- any that he could remember -- and to think in a way that was comforting for him. As Danilov strained, something caught him up and spun him around -- it was like being inside a tornado funnel -- and lifted him high. This was the feeling he had been trying to avoid. He felt eternity. The sensation was instantaneous and piercing. Danilov imagined his hair had turned white.

Danilov was flung down. Then he heard something scraping and striking metal.

And the blackness took Danilov in again and seemed to dissolve him.

35

Danilov lay on a bed with a metal grid, the kind found in hotel rooms in smallish cities. The mattress was thin, and Danilov could feel with his ribs the grid, which had been stretched by long years of use. The bed actually now resembled a hammock. As for the bed linens, they were freshly laundered, clean-smelling, with the rubber-stamped inventory markings in the right places. Danilov lay there in a pair of blue pajamas. Next to the bed stood a walnut wardrobe, where perhaps Danilov's clothes hung, including his coat and nutria hat. On previous occasions he had been assigned much nicer accommodations, sometimes even suites with palatial alcoves and silver-framed mirrors and ceiling paintings by Boucher.

Smarting from the insult, Danilov pulled the rough blanket over his head. And awoke completely. How could he be huffy? What was his problem? Why be a fool? So it wasn't Versailles or Sans Souci or the Houston Hilton -- after all, this was following the Well of Anticipation. He was lucky to be alive and have bed linens, which even though worn, were clean and ironed. And on the night table next to the radio was a carafe containing some liquid.

Danilov was encouraged. He sat up, pulled the carafe over, and drank straight from it. The liquid was lukewarm. Nevertheless, Danilov drank half of it. That made him hungry. And there was something encouraging about even that bodily need. It meant he was alive and wanted to live. The menu for breakfast (call it breakfast, Danilov decided) would be communicated to him either by interior signals or sent typed on a piece of paper. Here Danilov considered himself clever: The dishes listed would give him an inkling of the degree of trouble he was in. How were they planning to feed him? Like a prisoner? A convict on death row? A guest? Someone out of favor? Or what?

Danilov arose and found worn slippers under the bed. At the sink, he brushed his teeth with a rough brush and combed his hair. And reached out to discover his fate.

There were many dishes, but they all came from railroad station cafes. "Have they got me confused with Karmadon?" he thought. Maybe this was a new fashionable cuisine here?

Danilov decided to eat first and guess later, especially since there was boiled chicken on the menu. On previous occasions when he had come from Earth on a summons, Danilov himself had ordered chicken wrapped in Sport. Now the chicken arrived cold and lean, but Danilov gladly swallowed it and chewed on the bones. Danilov demanded paper napkins; napkins appeared. He asked for a toothpick, and they sent one down.

There was no doubt that yesterday (yes, yesterday!) in the Well of Anticipation, besides everything else, they had more in mind than just scaring him or offering him puzzles. The investigators were indubitably interested in his reactions to the visions and cataclysms. And finally, at the revelation of eternity. (When Danilov had seen his face in the mirror over the sink, he was amazed to find his hair had not turned white.) Of course, when he woke up he had realized that the sensation of eternity had left him. The abyss was forgotten. They had removed the instant of enlightenment. He vaguely recalled that his future had been revealed, too. So what, then? Had they dunked him into eternity by accident? Had they given Danilov excess information by mistake, and then, realizing their error, wiped it from his memory with a wet rag to make sure he found no loophole in the future? Or had they simply needed his instantaneous reaction? And no more?

Now Danilov strained his memory, hoping to resurrect even a grain of information. But in vain. By now his responses had been studied and were in the files.

"Let them!" Danilov thought desperately. "Let them! What more can they learn about me? Why did they waste their time and energy?" And a lot of effort and energy had been expended in the Well of Anticipation. All those crashes, worlds, galaxies, all that confusion of the essences of things and phenomena! They had shown him a lot of nonsense and bizarre things that had never existed in real life. For instance, the Cossack with the sleeping child behind him throwing a corpse into the abyss was borrowed from Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol. He wondered if the investigators had actually read Terrible Revenge, or whether some information on it (perhaps distorted: the Carpathian Mountains was a rather rough estimate) had gotten into their files in some oblique way. Of course, it didn't really matter. What mattered was that the investigators had tried to affect him in much the same way Karmadon had. What were they preparing for him now? "Hah!" Danilov dismissed the idea.

He decided to order a wall clock from the Serdovsk factory, and pushed his luck by asking for a cuckoo clock. The clock showed it was lunchtime. Pages of a menu descended into his hands, and they listed dishes from a restaurant car. "When did this insane vogue begin?" Danilov asked, worried. In the past he had been fed turtle soup and had even allowed himself to turn down oysters in wine...

Danilov sighed. Really, were they confusing him with Karmadon, or reminding him of the duel? Where was Karmadon now? Punished, or had he risen up, straightened his jaw, been promoted, and was now sitting next to Danilov's observers? Danilov thought that if the summons had been occasioned by Karmadon and the duel, his case might not be so hopeless.

By now the dishes were on the table. "Don't they have any beer? Not even one botde?" Danilov was incensed but he still pleaded. Apparently it wasn't a question of the kitchen's refrigerators, though -- the client did not have a right to beer.

Soon Danilov was thinking that being dressed in pajamas was not hotel-like but prisonlike, pathetic, as if he had given up and was prepared to position his head precisely on the block to make things easier for the executioner. No, he had to take off the pajamas immediately and go somewhere. Not without a twinge of fear, Danilov went over to the wardrobe. Before, he had been certain that his winter clothes were in there. But what if they had been taken away, leaving him only the pajamas? Danilov pulled the door handle aggressively, as if he had been robbed. No, they had left his Moscow winter clothing. Danilov was ashamed of his thoughts; it was a good thing he didn't pull off the door in his anger. After some hesitation, he asked for immediate delivery of a decent suit for going about in society. They sent the suit. When he put it on he realized that it was well made. He stood there, touched. Outer-appearance services obviously was treating him more kindly than nutrition services. Maybe there were reasons for that? Or did the services exist independently? Why bother guessing?

Danilov cheered up. His room -- either a hotel room or a solitary-confinement cell -- had no window, no walls, no doors. But Danilov, accustomed to conventions, stood where, according to his lights, a door would be in a hotel room. He did not dare go out for a long time, and when he did, his legs gave out on him. He expected a brick to fall on his head, or simply that he would be shoved back into his pajamas and bed. But no measures were taken against him. After a bit, Danilov started running; then he jumped and took off, soaring the way he had as a teenager. Soaring quickly bored him, and he began walking. Where he was walking, he didn't know. He was just walking. Once again uncertainty weighed heavily on Danilov. He was no longer capable of taking a stroll. He wanted to confront his investigators and judges right then and say to them: "Here I am, destroy me, but don't make me just hang around!"

Danilov did not know in which of the Nine Layers he was. Maybe the Fourth, Hospitality. Or maybe near the Chancery of Order. On a leash. And he was only imagining that he was walking and soaring, while actually he was like a goat on a tether.

He did not come across any signs to orient himself. Total emptiness. Not black, as in the Well of Anticipation, but yellowish-blue. And no sounds. But just then came a fat, giggling fellow in a Panama hat with a crumpled brim. He was riding a scooter and almost knocked Danilov down. The fellow was middle-aged, but pushed off energetically with his left foot, like a kid. The scooter looked homemade, just like the ones boys, including Danilov, made in Moscow in the 1940s -- using boards and three ball bearings. The bearings seemed to be rolling on asphalt -- they rumbled and made sparks. He passed Danilov and then stopped about a hundred yards ahead. Wagging his finger at Danilov, he said more with pleasure than dismay: "Phooey, the tires are screwy!" He rolled off. "He knows where to go," thought Danilov. "I have to follow him."

"What if it's Valentin Sergeyevich? Ah, what if it is?" Danilov was sure that it wasn't, but just a random passerby. This reckless road hog touched a soft spot in Danilov. It might be the first time he had ever ridden a scooter and was cultivating this image just for Danilov's sake. In reality he probably was some crystal stringbean in the Divine Bodies constellation. Fate had ordained their paths would cross, and the string-bean was trying hard to take on the guise of a vacationer by putting on a Panama.

Something glittered up ahead. "Bah, an elevator!" Danilov exclaimed.

Demons of all rank could move from layer to layer by any means. However, in the past hundred years they exclusively used the elevator. The elevator was quiet, like the one that used to run in the Astor Hotel in Philadelphia. It rumbled and swayed but was very chic with all sorts of metal trim, marvelous mirrors, brass fittings, blue porcelain lilies above the mirrors, and gold brocade tassels. It bore the stamp of unquestionable respectability.

The scooter had disappeared.

Danilov pushed the button.

"Which layer am I on?" Danilov thought again as the elevator cab rode past. Danilov indignantly pressed the call button but achieved nothing. Someone was in the elevator, but who, Danilov had not seen. Anyway, did he know everyone in Nine Layers? What was it? Was the button broken, or was Danilov locked on this level? Danilov pushed again. Soon he heard the sound of the elevator coming down, the invisible cables groaning and creaking. "Will it pass me by again?" It stopped. Danilov rushed into the empty elevator without thinking, as if he were late for something. He pushed the bottom button.

Now, from the elevator buttons he could tell that his metal-framed bed was on the Fourth Layer, Hospitality. That meant he was a guest. But Danilov did not fool himself. It didn't matter where they put him up...

On the first layer no one came up to Danilov or passed near him. A sorrowful haze covered everything. Danilov felt uncomfortable. He should leave. And he certainly should not have been headed for a sentimental spot. But Danilov could not fight the temptation. He went. The spot still was covered by a mountain of rubble -- cobblestones, broken colored glass, and smashed ornamental bones. Danilov raked through the rubble and found the mother-of-pearl lining still was torn here. Through the open, priceless crystal of the lower sphere, Danilov saw the big blue bull.

The blue bull stood, quietly moving his lips. His upper eyelids trembled, and once his right ear twitched, as if an insect had landed on it. The big blue bull had always supported the Nine Layers on his back and had to hold them there forever.

You were supposed to know about him, but it was forbidden to look at him. However, in his youth Danilov broke the rules out of curiosity and mischievousness. In later life he learned that certain rules were meant to be broken, but the ban on the blue bull was deadly serious. It was the very seriousness that made Danilov take the risk. Danilov had heard that the mother-of-pearl lining (which covered the inside of the lower crystal sphere) had peeled away in some spots and you could see through the crystal. Daredevil Danilov actually found one of those places, where the lining had not only peeled off but where there was also a crack in the crystal, a hole, almost. It had not been filled in, but simply covered over with a pile of stones, broken glass, and ornamental bones. That was when Danilov had first seen the big blue bull. The bull really was huge, but Danilov, being young, was disappointed: "So he's there, so he's holding it up, so what?" But later he recalled the bull with respect. Now Danilov felt that it was something more than the memory of a youthful prank that had brought him back here. Something else ...

Danilov stood, looking. On the bull's back, beneath the rough and still shiny pelt, the muscles twitched. Danilov sensed it was making an effort; perhaps the animal's back itched. "Poor thing," thought Danilov. He found a thin piece of bone in the rubble pile, pushed it through the crack, reached the bull's back, and scratched it. The animal's eye opened. It seemed grateful; it asked for more. Danilov scratched the bull's back for a long time. Finally the big bull's eyelid went down and Danilov realized mat it was enough. Danilov pushed back the rocks, glass, and bones and returned to the elevator. On the way he thought: "What about Karmadon? Did he want to be a blue bull on Earth because of the big bull who holds up Nine Layers? Why didn't that occur to me before?! But why did Karmadon need to do that? Well, why do I need my music?"

In the elevator Danilov pushed the button for the Second Layer. That was where the disabled veterans were housed.

Now Danilov was calmer and he discovered something new in the elevator: air conditioning. It had never been stuffy in the cab, but they went ahead and put in an air conditioner anyway.

Danilov got off at the Second Layer with some trepidation. What did they need him here for? The sights on the Second Layer were picturesque. Astonishing aromas enveloped Danilov. The sounds and smells from the warehouses of the First Layer, where captured souls were held in torment or pleasure, did not penetrate up here. Here, in places designated for the public, were strollers, such as one would expect to find in Baden-Baden. There were very formal gardens, charming trellised gazebos with roses and garlands, green allйes, fountains with gilt dragons -- their jets of water scattered like pearls.

In inactivity -- fully justified -- in grape arbors and myrtle groves, the demons wandered, flew, crawled, dragged their feet, played dice and doorknobs, befriended spirits, smoked poisonous herbs, and told fortunes. The denizens of this area included demons from the lower, and, at best, middle echelons: warriors, careerists. There were undoubtedly blood suckers and marauders among them. Danilov walked down the pathways, wandered along the groves. He ran into several familiar oldsters, retired from service, and younger demons who had become invalids in their hazardous work. He met cripples from mental labor. And also wastrels who were getting early retirement. Danilov entered into conversation with them about this and that. They did not know about his Time X. But neither the quiet chats nor the local landscape amused Danilov. He wanted to learn something about Karmadon. Or to see Sinezud, who could tell him about the wretched fate of house spirit Bek Leonovich.

Danilov headed farther on, where the more important personalities were allowed to settle. Now retired. Or demoted. Or disillusioned. Or made impotent by knowledge. These retirees had lots of space, pastures and castles, mountain chains and waterfalls, coral islands and geyser fields. The disillusioned ones simply sat, bored, like Manfred, on basalt plateaus that even surefooted mountain goats had trouble reaching. Or in damp caves, where stalactites dripped hollowly. The weary veterans and cripples, reliving their youth, sometimes arranged earthquakes or cholera epidemics. Sometimes they dropped in on their neighbors to play poker and drink Arabian wine. Some simply dozed in barrels and glass vessels. Without trespassing on anyone's property -- and who would have let him? -- Danilov determined that Karmadon had not received a plot in the Second Layer.

Just in case, Danilov dashed past the home of Karmadon's great-uncle -- Mephistopheles. The uncle had a hermit's hut -- three stories tall, however, and of totally modern architecture. Now the uncle was standing near his porch in farmer's overalls. He tossed feed from an aluminum tub to his California roosters. Neat beds of thistles and toadstools indicated that Karmadon's uncle had taken up gardening. That was touching. But Danilov had not peeked in to see vegetable beds, but to see if Karmadon was staying with his uncle. He wasn't.

Danilov sighed and flew back to the elevator door.

In the elevator Danilov pushed the button for the Seventh Layer.

He pressed it without thinking. The Seventh Layer was the Layer of Pleasure. Was it appropriate for Danilov to appear at balls and banquets now? Was he dressed well enough for Seven? Too late. He had pressed the button. So be it. It wasn't that Danilov was feeling courageous, but he was obvioush trying to look like he was -- it was almost as if he were throwing out a challenge to someone. Or simply to his situation. Danilov was nervous as he rode up. He remembered how he used to appear in the Seventh Layer when he was young.

Back then he was a happy-go-lucky playboy, and much was forgiven. The ladies gave him such looks! Some of them were well on in years. Their blood was at a boil and so was his. But Danilov did not seek their patronage. He was proud and independent. He worked in the Seventh Layer, organizing fireworks, playing sensual pieces on the lute, dancing at balls. If he had stayed working there, would there have ever been a reason to call him in for Time X? But then Danilov would never have gone to Earth.

It was incredibly quiet in the Seventh Layer. The light was dim. Strange sounds came from afar. They had no relation to music, but more to wood and rags. As if someone were moving furniture and washing the floor with a wet mop. The parties, sprees, balls, and fireworks were supposed to take place here in the evenings. Perhaps the hands of the cuckoo clock were not at all where they were supposed to be? According to Danilov's lights, it was getting on to dinnertime, while here it looked like morning. "I have to readjust," Danilov decided.

But it didn't matter. So it was morning. So the orchestra didn't boom, and dresses didn't rustle on the parquet floor.

Danilov was rather glad that the Seventh Layer was deserted. Now he realized that he was not prepared to appear here at the height of the festivities.

"Say, pal," Danilov heard a hoarse voice say, "where's the you-know?"

Danilov turned. A shaggy demon, barely able to open his eyes, stood before him.

"What's a you-know?" Danilov asked, and immediately realized that it was a stupid question. Of course, the fellow was asking about the toilet. But it had been easier to assume that some other need was tormenting him.

"Over there," Danilov said and pointed in the direction where boisterous hangover parties used to take place in the mornings.

The demon flew off. Danilov had wanted to follow, but the demon returned instantly. He was angry. Either at Danilov or at what he had seen. Screaming, waving his arms and wings, he threw an ugly cardboard sign at Danilov, spat on the ground, and vanished with an angry electrical crackle. The sign said in eighteen different senses: "Closed for cleanup." "Aha," thought Danilov, "nothing strange then, just a new regime." Just in case, Danilov went over to the hangover spot. The clean-up signs were all over the place. "When did they start this?" Then he thought how out of touch he was now, even down to minor details -- the air conditioner in the elevator and this clean-up time. "They've become so cleanliness-conscious ..." And he noticed that he called the local inhabitants "they," as if to separate himself from life on the Nine Layers.

36

Danilov returned to the Fourth Layer. Nothing had changed. Tormented by thirst, Danilov decided to do something audacious.

He went into a diner. And immediately saw Karmadon.

Karmadon was sitting right next to the counter at a heavy, rough-hewn table. He was with three demons unknown to Danilov.

Danilov almost ducked out, but stopped in time to think: "What's the matter with me?" He gravely sat down at a free table, albeit at a good distance from Karmadon. But why was he still feeling confused? Why, even though he had forced himself to sit down, was he still ready to run out of there? Just recently he had been looking for Karmadon, and now here he was. "Sit!" Danilov said to himself. "Sit, since you're in here." And he sat.

Karmadon might not even notice him. That made Danilov feel uncomfortable. "What's happening to him now?" he thought. He was led to make certain conjectures by the fact that Karmadon, an ace with special assignments, who used to be entitled to luxurious spots for rest and relaxation, was now in a crummy diner. "But what," thought Danilov, "if they serve railroad cuisine here now? And that's why Karmadon is here!" This upset Danilov. He ordered from the kitchen. Before, the buffet had served not only meat but also fish, so Danilov ordered cheap caviar. The caviar appeared. It came in a hard flat brick on the plate -- apparently it was pressed. Danilov bit off a piece and then asked for Heineken and Radeberger. The mugs arrived chilled and foamy. The Dutch beer was the real thing. But they had substituted a Pilsener from the Apolda brewery for the Radeberger. "Oh, well," thought Danilov, "they may be out of Radeberger. And Radeberger is a type of Pilsener, after all." Danilov recalled that Apolda was near Weimar. Once Goethe leapt from his horse and took charge of putting out a fire there. "This is great! They wouldn't give a prisoner, a condemned man, beer and caviar!"

He even seemed to forget about Karmadon. Although, of course, he always had him in sight. Sideways to Danilov, Karmadon sat quiet and grim, chewing something.

"May I join you?"

"Please," Danilov said with a nod.

"Bah, but it's Danilov!" the demon who joined him said. "Hello! What brings you here?"

"The usual..." Danilov muttered.

He was trying to remember who this was. He looked familiar. He was dressed in a European wool suit but had the hood of a Bedouin robe on his head. The hood practically hid his entire face, but you could see that the parts of his face existed independently and could move from place to place. "Who is this?" thought Danilov. "Could it be someone from the lyceum?" Obviously not from his class, but ahead of him? Or behind?

"No, I'm not from the lyceum," the demon said. "That's out of my league... We met taking courses for self-improvement... We shared our impressions... I'm also from Earth... I work in the Arabian deserts..."

"Ah, yes, yes," Danilov said. "I remember you now."

He really had. He almost had his name, too, something like Urael, or Urail...

"Ugrael," the demon said.

"Yes, yes, Ugreal..."

"Are you here to report or to receive instructions?"

"Report," Danilov said quickly and looked around.

"Sure," Ugrael said, and it seemed to Danilov that he was mocking him, saying, I know what you're really here for.

"Have you been here long?" Danilov asked.

"Quite a while. I've been summoned."

"For a pleasant reason, if it's not a secret?"

"A good reason," Ugrael said importantly.

At that instant, Karmadon set his glass of black liquid on the table and turned his head. Danilov now saw the right side of his face, which had been out of sight. It was all twisted, as if Karmadon had had a stroke. "What an unpleasant grimace!" thought Danilov and even grew sad. He knew why Karmadon's face was like that, but he had assumed that it would have been corrected. Karmadon turned away, apparently without noticing Danilov.

"He's suffering," Ugrael said, almost with pleasure.

"Who?" Danilov asked.

"Karmadon. Look how his face is twisted."

"Maybe that was part of his assignment?"

"Assignment!" Ugrael laughed. "If it had happened on assignment, it would have been treated a long time ago! Look where they've sent him instead! He's even started frequenting this dump, and he's a former ace!"

"Where?"

"Where what?"

"Where did they send him?"

"Are you kidding? Are you pulling my leg? Everyone knows. And you two used to be pals."

"I just got in from Moscow."

"From Moscow!" Ugrael laughed again.

"From Moscow," Danilov said grimly and firmly.

"And so you don't know that Karmadon was kicked out of the aces and sent to a microcosmos on an elementary particle?"

"No, I didn't know," Danilov said sincerely.

"Well, they did."

"Well, the work there is important, too," Danilov said after some thought. "Complex work ..."

"It's complex, all right," Ugrael said. "But you're putting me on?"

"No, really ... Karmadon and I aren't as close as we used to be in our youth. I just saw him now. I didn't even know he was in the Nine Layers. I don't know the demons he is with. I didn't want to interrupt. But I was shocked by his appearance. What happened to him?"

"Why am I justifying myself to him?" Danilov scolded himself. He realized he shouldn't be questioning (and lying, in the bargain) a chance acquaintance who had been summoned for some reason to the Nine Layers from the Arabian desert, about Karmadon's misfortunes, but Danilov could not help himself. There was mockery in Ugrael's eyes again. He seemed to be implying -- I know that you really know.

"I'm not too well informed myself," Ugrael said. "Who am I? Small fry ... or used to be."

He stressed the past tense and looked meaningfully at Danilov. Ugrael had probably come here in hopes of being promoted, and his hopes had been encouraged, and he was bursting with pride, hinting about it even to Danilov.

"I only know what I've heard. And what is that? Rumors. Gossip. Apparently Karmadon had a romance... you know

... idyllic ... but he blew it. That's when it happened to his face. And you know that in cases like that the wounds and damage are not repaired... Besides, they say that Karma-don broke the rules -- that is, dishonored himself. His friends and family couldn't do anything for him. A loser, dishonored. Now he's a demon of the tenth clause."

"The tenth?" Danilov couldn't believe it.

"The tenth. And he works on an elementary particle."

A bottle of ginger vodka and a plate of pieces of dried bamboo appeared before Ugrael. "He must be tired of Arabian foods," thought Danilov. Ugrael offered Danilov some vodka, but Danilov thanked him politely and called for another mug of beer.

"And they say," Ugrael continued, "that he did not appeal. How could he? But it's a shame! ... All for some woman."

Here Ugrael's left eye moved to the corner of his mouth, widened, and stared at Danilov with anticipation. Perhaps he expected frankness from Danilov.

"Yes," Danilov said, "a sad story."

Ugrael's eye returned to its proper place and looked modestly into the shot glass. This little demon in a burnoose knew much, obviously. If he knew about the woman, he must have heard about Danilov's role in Karmadon's adventure. Right now he was playing (perhaps with an ulterior motive) at being a naive provincial. But what if Danilov were wrong?

"How are things in Moscow?" Ugrael asked.

"What are you interested in?"

"Many things interest me," Ugrael said. "The climate, lifestyle, drinking, smoking ..."

He broke off, as if he were afraid. Danilov looked at Ugrael with curiosity. Why was he so interested in Moscow?

"Compared to the Arabian deserts, Moscow is cool," Danilov said. "It's not far from the Arctic Ocean -- "

"Yes, yes, I know," Ugrael said quickly.

"As for smoking ... what in particular? Cigarettes, cigars, pipe tobacco? Or marijuana?"

"No, I was just chatting..." Ugrael was embarrassed. "I don't smoke... Excuse me, I'm running late." He got up. "I wish you a good report."

"Thanks." Danilov nodded coldly.

"Perhaps we'll meet again. Perhaps not." Ugrael's ears crawled over his eyes. He gave Danilov an unpleasant, perhaps an evil look. And then he vanished.

"What if he really does know something?" Danilov thought worriedly. "He was putting me on. Why was he asking about Moscow? I don't think it was out of politeness... At least he wasn't interested in my orchestra." Danilov's mood was spoiled by Ugrael's farewell grimace.

Danilov transferred the irritation aroused by Ugrael to Karmadon. Danilov wanted to do something that would get Karmadon's attention. Danilov was being boorish -- he was following hops with cognac (almost as a protest). And staring meanly at Karmadon's table.

Karmadon turned. He was saying something to his friends, making a point, and when he turned, he froze. When he came to his senses, he shifted his chair so that his back was to Danilov, and went on talking.

Danilov had no doubt that Karmadon had seen him. The demons with Karmadon had noticed him, too. They kept looking over at him. But they probably weren't talking about him with Karmadon.

Karmadon did not turn around again. Danilov was nervous. He set aside his cognac. Everything in the diner irritated him. "He does not deign to notice me! He will not express scorn, or anger, or hurt. Of course not! So! He's an aristocrat, even though he's humiliated and demoted; he's still a demon of the main succession!"

Something was about to push Danilov into a fight, an absolutely meaningless fight that certainly would harm him -- a disgusting, brawling sort of fight (Danilov sensed that), an hysterical fight accompanied by the breaking of dishes. "I'll go over to him!" Danilov was working himself up. "I'll demand an explanation of the whereabouts of Sinezud and Bek Leonovich..."

The thought of Bek Leonovich came just in time, and Danilov latched on to it. He now convinced himself that it was precisely because of Bek Leonovich that he was determined to go over to Karmadon.

"Excuse me, but I must speak to you..."

Karmadon pretended not to see Danilov, but his tablemates watched Danilov with interest, perhaps with the expectation of a spectacle.

"Unfortunately, I am forced to violate the rules of propriety..."

"Are you addressing us as a group," a demon with red ears and a beret asked Danilov, "or do you have one of us specifically in mind?"

"I want to ask Karmadon a question, and it is his right to decide whether he wants to hear me out in company or in privacy."

"I don't care," Karmadon said.

"Where is Bek Leonovich?"

"Who?"

" Bek Leonovich. The house spirit from Ostankino."

"Oh," Karmadon recalled, and immediately said superciliously, "Unfortunately, I cannot satisfy your curiosity in any way."

"But he was sent in a direction known only to you. And you sent him... I had given him a guarantee of safety. He should be returned..."

"That is beyond my powers now," Karmadon said.

"Whose power is it within?" Danilov wouldn't stop.

"I don't know. But, I think, not yours, either."

Danilov suddenly felt that he had nothing to say. Why bother with a scene, why make some statement? He was pathetic, standing by Karmadon's table, and with every passing second he seemed more ridiculous, his audacity turning to farce. Karmadon's friends were still looking at him, expecting something. But nothing happened. Karmadon, though disfigured, was still haughty and calm.

"Well," Danilov said, "I'll have to try to get Bek Leonovich back."

And he bowed.

Now he really should have left, but he couldn't. He went back to his table and sat with his back to Karmadon. "What a fool I am!" thought Danilov. "Now I am disgraced. Serves me right!" It had been senseless and rude to mention publicly to Karmadon the Ostankino house spirit. It should have been whispered into Karmadon's ear. How could he have stooped so low, behaving like a pickle seller in a marketplace, screeching that his pickles had been stolen from his barrel! And no pickles had been taken at all... He was embarrassed and disgusted.

Danilov sipped his beer. He worried. So this is what happened to his lyceum friend! But Karmadon was holding up. He was wounded, demoted, and had a crooked face, but he was holding up! And how! "No," thought Danilov, "he's still a bird of prey, still an ace with a special assignment."

37

He should be going home. "Home." Danilov laughed. "What's to do there? Sit by the wardrobe in the gloom and reflect? Yes, sit there!" Danilov told himself. "And think about what you are and why you exist. And if there is any meaning to your continued existence."

"Danilov!" Someone put his hand on Danilov's shoulder.

Danilov looked around. Karmadon stood before him. The diner was quiet and empty.

"Yes." Danilov frowned.

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm listening."

"Not here," Karmadon said.

"Where, then?"

"I know a place. If you agree to go, I will be deeply grateful."

"All right."

He got up. Karmadon turned and walked quickly, without showing the slightest interest in whether Danilov followed. He wore a blue cloak, which billowed out to reveal a sword on his left side. Danilov followed Karmadon anxiously; they turned down a dark alley, and Danilov couldn't figure out what century they were in or what kind of architectural style was represented in the buildings, but there they were. Kar-madon was in charge.

A door creaked. Karmadon pushed it open with his shoulder and invited Danilov to come in. Karmadon held a thin taper in his hand. The pale, flickering light illuminated a narrow, winding staircase -- stairs like this were built in fortress towers or walls of castles or stone houses. Danilov had gone up such a staircase in an old house belonging to a voyevoda* in Solikamsk.

He followed Karmadon down the stairs. The steps were stone, but so worn, they seemed to be tilted. The shadows were alive and vicious; bats with canine faces were hidden in them. "What do I care about bats?" thought Danilov. But he was afraid. At last it grew a bit lighter. They were in a cellar of some sort. Karmadon indicated a bench, standing near a long oak table. Danilov hesitated and sat down, reluctantly, on the edge of the bench. Karmadon undid the silver clasp of his cloak, which he then tossed aside, and he sat down next to Danilov.

"Danilov," Karmadon said and put his hand on Danilov's shoulder. "Danilov...."

He started to cry.

Before Karmadon had started crying, Danilov had wanted to push away his hand from his shoulder. But now he froze in embarrassment. He looked around -- was anyone watching? The cellar seemed empty.

Karmadon put his hands on the oak plank of the table and then lowered his head onto his arms. "Why is he crying?" thought Danilov. "Is he play-acting? Or is this for real?" Just in case, he examined their secluded spot. Three fat candles, in an Augsburg candleholder, shone with a bright flame on the table. Two columns held up the vaulted ceiling. The cellar was early Gothic, a modest country affair. The walls, vaults, and columns were whitewashed, and the brick surface was visible only in the even seams of the ribs. In the corner behind the far column, Danilov could make out barrels. Who knew whether they held wine, gunpowder, or pirate booty?

Karmadon lifted his head. His eyes were dry.

"Danilov," said Karmadon, "play for me."

"What?"

"Play something sad."

"I don't have an instrument."

"Take the one over there."

He pointed to the barrels; there was something on the floor near them. Danilov felt a chill: Could it be the Albani? He hurried to the barrels and saw a lute. It was a familiar lute. Danilov had played it in his youth, and later in the Seventh Layer of Pleasures. He held the lute tenderly, feeling a warm affection for the eternal instrument.

"I'll try," Danilov said, "but I'm used to earthly tunes. You Want one of those pieces from our youth?"

"Yes, one of those," Karmadon said with a nod.

Karmadon wanted something more than just music, so Danilov started to play. In their youth they had shared moments that were lofty and sad; elegies had sounded then. Danilov sincerely wanted to ease the lot of his old friend, sitting so quietly next to him. He pitied him and he pitied himself...

"Thank you, Danilov," Karmadon said.

"For what?"

"Let's have a drink."

"Let's," Danilov said uncertainly. He did not want to drink. He placed the lute on the bench reluctantly, with sadness -- he had missed music.

Danilov looked warily at the goblets that appeared on the table. He expected the imminent appearance of Northern Lights liqueur, and zakuski from a railroad buffet, on indestructible plates of corrugated foil. But his fears were groundless. Karmadon drank grimly and with panache, and Danilov was impressed -- the strong liquor was so good and so noble. "Why did Karmadon torment us with Northern Lights on Earth, and why are they sticking me with railroad food here?" Danilov thought, almost insulted.

Karmadon drained his goblet. Danilov took one sip.

"I'm sick, Danilov!" Karmadon said. "Sick and tired!"

"Of what?" Danilov asked, primarily out of politeness.

Karmadon must have sensed the mockery in his words, or simple lack of sympathy -- and that was enough. He glanced at Danilov viciously, and even though the weakness of a wounded animal shone in Karmadon's eyes, Danilov felt frightened. Karmadon was embarrassed. He had not brought Danilov here to argue with him. Danilov did not know how to behave at this moment.

"I really do not know the reasons for your present condition," Danilov said drily.

Karmadon looked at him again.

"Haven't you heard anything?"

"I heard," Danilov said. "Accidentally and very recently. But that was vague information and perhaps it was merely gossip..."

"I'm demoted, broken, and exiled," Karmadon said.

Danilov had expected Karmadon to launch into a lengthy explanation, dramatizing the details, seeking sympathy, but Karmadon spoke only the five words and then slammed his fist on the table as punctuation, and drained his goblet once more.

"But even a microcosmos," Danilov said, "has its own life."

"Yes," Karmadon agreed. "Even a microcosmos."

"Why despair then?" Danilov said. "We're not kids anymore. At our age, you know that the point isn't in getting to the top -- "

"Danilov, don't," Karmadon said. "You play the lute well, but you're not a thinker."

"You're probably right."

"And that's not the point. That they've sent me to an elementary particle!" Karmadon was practically shouting. "That's not it! My weakness -- that's what's driving me to despair."

Danilov said nothing.

"Your name was not mentioned," Karmadon said. "You can stop worrying."

"You mean they don't know about the duel?"

"They know about the duel."

"If they know about the duel, they know about me."

"I did not give your name!" Karmadon shouted.

"Thanks for that."

"And the word 'duel' was not spoken. It was thought but not spoken."

"And I mentioned Bek Leonovich in the diner!" thought Danilov sadly.

"I don't regret a thing," Karmadon said. "I don't regret breaking the rules and shooting ahead of you. You must understand that."

Danilov was going to argue, but then thought better of it.

"But I should have shot with conviction!" Karmadon said. "Then I would have been forgiven. No demotion. Everyone would have respected me! And I would have respected myself. But that shot was pathetic."

"Pathetic?!" Danilov said. "You shot a thousand compressed suns at me!"

"Pathetic," Karmadon said. "If you still exist, it was pathetic. I didn't have the strength for anything more."

"You know best," Danilov agreed politely. Then he asked, "Where are the seconds?"

"They were witnesses!" Karmadon said sharply.

"I understand that," Danilov said. "However, forgive my persistence, but I am concerned about the fate of Bek Leonovich. I'm not responsible for Sinezud, but I dragged Bek Leonovich into this affair, and I had promised him that nothing would happen to him."

"I did not bring you here to discuss the fate of a house spirit!"

"That doesn't matter," Danilov said firmly.

"Well, all right! They took off. It's possible they flew into the black hole you're not mentioning. Most likely they're in another universe, not connected to ours in any way. But if you have the opportunity, why not try to bring them back from there?"

"I will," Danilov said, ignoring Karmadon's sarcasm.

"What if they're happier there?"

"It's possible," Danilov said with a nod.

"Enough about them!" Karmadon said.

His goblet was full again. Karmadon drank greedily, and the liquid spilled on his gray suede camisole. Danilov tried to avoid looking at Karmadon. He did not like seeing his mutilated face.

"That woman ... how is she?" Karmadon asked.

Danilov was certain that Karmadon meant Natasha. He was constantly afraid that they might be overheard, even though he assumed that Karmadon had no reason to arrange a witness to this conversation, and probably he had selected a safe and secret place. But Danilov's eyes still searched all the corners.

"Don't be afraid," Karmadon spoke loudly. "No one is listening to us. I know where to take you."

"Maybe so," thought Danilov. "And maybe not."

"I wasn't joking then," Karmadon said. "And I wasn't testing you. I thought that you weren't serious about her. And I really did need her."

"Let's drop this," Danilov said grimly.

"I think about her even now."

"I think continuing this conversation is useless."

Karmadon drained the goblet again.

"Yes, I understand," he shouted, "that's not manly! Yes, I'm pathetic, I'm weak! My motto used to be 'Nothing in excess,' but what is it now? Do you remember our conversation in Ostankino?"

Danilov was tense. He was thinking only that this conversation could harm Natasha. He wasn't paying attention to Karmadon, and realized only that Karmadon had asked him a question, so he nodded.

"I said then that impotence comes from knowledge. From knowledge! You argued with me."

"I remember," Danilov said. "But I haven't had any occasion to be convinced that you're right. The theory doesn't worry me much."

"That's because you're young!"

"I'm your age!"

"You're young! Aces age faster. You just sit quietly on your planet. But think how many civilizations and other kinds of systems I've had to deal with! Think what it cost me! Think how much I learned!"

"But when we graduated you were given the Big Revelation," Danilov interjected carefully.

"That's just the point," Karmadon blazed. "A lot of what I've learned does not correspond to the Big Revelation!"

Karmadon checked himself, and now he, as Danilov had before him, looked around.

"And I've forgotten the details of the Big Revelation," Karmadon added, not so much decisively as meekly.

But very quickly he grew nervous and loud once again. "Knowledge has worn me out, but I can't do anything about it. I'm as greedy as before. Even if I transfer to disabled veterans and start growing mandragora, I won't be able to settle down. Now I'm in a civilization of an elementary particle and I'm spinning like a top there. I have to get back to being an ace with a special assignment. I don't need this crooked face. So I have to prove that I'm still the same. That I'm harder and more evil than before. However, just try confounding a civilization of such tiny things. Change its course! Those teensy things, which are invisible to you, and more refined and pedantic than most creatures with which I've dealt. It's quite possible that I will disgrace myself in this microcosmos and never go back to being an ace. Even now I'm disgraced: You're alive, and my face is crooked!"

He dropped his head on his arms and grew quiet.

A few seconds earlier Danilov recalled the big blue bull, how he had stuck the bone through the crack in the crystal vault and scratched the animal's back. He wanted to ask why Karmadon had chosen to be a blue bull on Earth, but he did not dare ask.

Karmadon sensed his thoughts and looked up.

"Yes! Yes! I wanted to get into the skin of the big blue bull, to feel like a superdemon, to know what to do next. Look what happened!"

He stopped talking and then changed the subject.

"Every element is the primary source of something else, which is connected to it but different. Earth is the soil for trees and plants; water for minerals and rocks; and air for winds, snows, and rains. One is transformed into the other.

I am an element, too. But for what am I the primary source?"

Danilov was familiar with this reasoning. He must have read it in his lyceum textbooks. It had seemed naive to him then and irrelevant. But Karmadon had his own views of the world, and why should he look down on them?

"For what am I the primary source?" Karmadon continued. "Sooner or later I will be transformed into something. But into what?"

"Why be transformed? It's not obligatory -- "

"Ah! What do you know?" Karmadon waved him off.

"It's nerves," he said. "Your personal and job problems are getting on your nerves."

"What are you talking about?" Karmadon grimaced. "What about this? ... I create floods and eruptions, explosions of deadly materials, blood, burning, hatred of brother for brother. But after I leave, then gradually, not all at once, everything will flourish powerfully and luxuriantly, like wheat on compost... It's as if I merely gave a push to the development I wanted to slow down... So are those cataclysms necessary? And to whom? To me? To them? First you have the destruction, and then comes the development we abhor, flowers and colors, music..."

"Aren't you exaggerating the capabilities of the Nine Layers?" Danilov said. "Aren't the civilizations the cause of their own cataclysms?"

"Even if I am exaggerating ... are we abetting something or harming it? Is our presence in the universe necessary, and if so, why? Or is it all just a game, devoid of meaning? I'm confused..."

"I have my own view of things, but you are unlikely to be swayed from your opinions right now."

"I don't need an adviser," Karmadon said.

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"I don't know. I'm lonely. My relatives and influential friends, even though they did everything to help, are cold to me, if not downright disdainful. My scholarly brother New Mar-garit considers me nonexistent. And even though you are basically no one to me, just a demon on contract, you suit me fine. I whine and am pathetic, but now I feel better. Maybe I can forget my trouble and no one will remind me of it. You're with me now. But soon you'll die."

"Are you sure of that?" Danilov asked.

"If you were summoned that way ..."

Danilov wanted to disagree, to tell Karmadon that he had been summoned, yes, but was not being kept in a cell, rather in a nice room with a wardrobe and cuckoo clock. He was allowed to walk around, and maybe everything would come out in unprecedented fashion... Then he recalled that Karmadon had promised to get him a position at his Chancery and thereby save him from investigation and retribution. But what was the point of bringing that up now?

"Do you know anything new about my case?"

"I do. I doubt that I could help you."

"I wouldn't think of troubling you."

"It's your problem ... yours."

Karmadon raised his goblet, but now he had almost to force himself. Then he said:

"Well, that's it. Farewell. Don't be too frank with Ugrael. They're thinking of replacing you with him. That's it. Go now. Farewell."

"Farewell," Danilov said.

He got up, stood for a few seconds indecisively, not knowing where to go. Should he take a candle and go up the stairs?

"Danilov," Karmadon suddenly said, "do you want to have children?"

"Children?" Danilov was surprised. "Yes."

"I don't."

"Why not?"

"I can't pass on any moral values to them!"

"Who'd have thought?" thought Danilov.

"And it looks like I won't have any children," Karmadon said bitterly. Then he remembered himself and said threateningly: "That's it! Farewell!"

It was as if a barrel of gunpowder had exploded. The Gothic vaults vanished in fire and smoke, and Danilov saw that he was two paces away from the entrance to the diner.

38

A few more days passed, according to the cuckoo clock. Danilov was not disturbed. They were mocking him. Or else Danilov was at the end of the line and those who had summoned him had no pressing reasons for rushing the inevitable. He grew tired of riding the elevator from layer to layer. He had satisfied his memories of the past; he didn't run into many acquaintances, and the conversations he had were oblique and cautious. Danilov spent hours lying on the hotel bed, staring into space and thinking about nothing. Danilov never kept his impassioned and determined promise to cogitate on the meaning of his own existence and decide whether that existence was worth defending.

Once in a while he would remember some vision from the Well of Anticipation and try to understand it. The shoemaker's apron still puzzled him... Sometimes Danilov thought about his conversation with Karmadon. Karmadon had said things that Danilov now wished to refute. "Why didn't you refute them then?" he asked himself. But really, why bother? Karmadon had been speaking with a listener tantamount to a void.

The most important conversation lay ahead, and there Danilov would have to be extremely careful not to make things worse for himself.

Danilov no longer went to the Seventh Layer of Pleasures, even though they had probably finished the cleanup. Nor had Danilov shown up on the Fifth Scholarly Layer, either. Before, he had not gone there much, anyway. It was hard for him to keep up his end in scholarly conversations with educated demons. Right now, though, with nothing else to do, he wouldn't have minded dropping by the Fifth Layer. Quite a few of his acquaintances worked there. Danilov hadn't seen one of them in a long time -- New Margarit, Karmadon's brother. Back in Ostankino, Karmadon had told Danilov that New Margarit was blazing a brilliant career. Then Danilov had learned how New Margarit had reacted to his brother's duel and downfall. So he was unlikely to turn up his nose at Danilov now. But who knew? ... Danilov could not figure out why he needed to see New Margarit. Or did not want to figure it out. That is, he knew down deep that, aside from natural curiosity, a certain mercenary motive was pushing him to the meeting.

Danilov took the elevator and went to the Fifth Layer.

The wind blew and lightning flashed there. These were not lightning bolts for bathing, even if Danilov had been able to enjoy bathing at that point. They were doing experiments.

In a green meadow Danilov saw a peasant girl in wooden clogs. She was slender and black-browed, but with cold, glassy eyes. The girl ran over to a brook and began throwing bits of fine-chopped hard-boiled egg into the water. She chanted: "Abracadabra, there's seventy-seven of you -- here's payment for each one of you." Danilov could not believe his ears and eyes. It was the Middle Ages (in Earth terms). There were seventy-seven fevers then, and to get rid of an ailment, you had to throw seventy-seven grains of millet or an egg chopped into seventy-seven parts into the water. In all probability, the fever laboratory was testing antidotes to this cure. The young girl was a lab worker, incarnated for some reason not as a patient, as the circumstances would warrant, but as a spring fever (the winter fever would be a greedy, trembling old woman).

Danilov pitied the lab -- there was a multitude of treatments for fevers. A patient could eat dog or mouse excrement or drink the blood of cattle. Or (more pleasantly) drink manure dissolved in vodka. The patient could find an ash tree with a crack and climb through it three times, thereby leaving the disease in the crack. He could carry a thread with twelve knots in it. He could avoid a fever by being absent, nailing up his door and leaving a sign on it: "He's not home, he's gone." His relatives could place the patient in a wagon and drive him at wild speeds along ravines, rocky roads, and hills. thereby shaking the fever out of him. They could also chase after him with stakes in their hands, and when the patient fell down exhausted, they could hammer the stake in next to him to nail the disease to the ground. Or at least scare it. So there were enough treatments, and they were all dependable. Naturally, specialists in fevers had not been sitting on their hands before, they knew about stakes and rocking wagons and came up with something even stronger than stakes. But that was a long time ago. Even in Danilov's youth all their efforts and discoveries were considered old-fashioned and unscientific. Why were they still fighting hard-boiled eggs?

Danilov did not wait for the end of the experiment (it probably would have been a long wait). He continued on. He now wanted to put off his meeting with New Margarit. He was embarrassed. "Am I going to ask him for something?" Danilov tormented himself. He wandered around the Fifth Layer, peeking into its various nooks and crannies.

The Fifth Layer was divided between natural testing ranges -- forests, black crevasses, rocky ocean floors where monsters swam over Danilov's head -- and buildings with metal armatures, knots of tubing, broken transparent spheres, gigantic flasks and test tubes. There were also corridors and tunnels leading to nowhere. Here and there were nameplates identifying various departments.

Carts rolled down the corridors and tunnels, dirigibles and aerostats floated above, and scientist demons walked and flew, hurrying along in their work. Sometimes one would nod to Danilov en route, and Danilov would recognize the nodder, but no conversations arose. This was work time.

Some names stood out in fiery letters: "Drying Out Laboratory," "Academy of the Evil Eye," "Warehouse of Artificial Intellects," "Room for Subtle Reasoning," "Institute of the Inside-Out Stocking," "Range for Historical Personalities." Most of the department names did not surprise Danilov. One did stop him, however: "Commission on the Use of Drowned Musicians." Danilov had always known that drowned musicians were used, but this commission was news to him. He wanted to drop in. But how could he do that? What would he say? I've brought you new information on an issue that concerns the commission? But what did concern it? That's what Danilov wanted to learn... He stood in front of the door for a while but then moved on.

A worker who seemed familiar to Danilov (they exchanged nods) walked past and dropped several pots with seedlings. Danilov picked them up. "Where is he going?" thought Danilov. To the Flying Saucer Hothouse. In the warm air under glass roofs they grew on green stems. Small and large. They really did look like saucers. But of a larger size. About as big as the late Queen Mary. In the hangar behind the hothouse were the means for delivering the saucers to Earth. Many demons on the Nine Layers were critical of the flying saucers, and considered them just fooling around. They were. But why not fool around?

The saucers did not give Danilov any particular pleasure. Well, they're growing, so what? The acquaintance explained to Danilov that recently sixteen new hotbeds were set up, in which medium-size saucers could be grown in seventeen days. Before, they needed twenty-two or more.

"Will the quality be affected?" Danilov asked just in case.

"It shouldn't," the hothouse worker said. Not too confi-dendy. Then he added angrily: "Oh, if we could only use natural manure for fertilizer instead of these powders!"

Danilov was in total agreement about the manure. Danilov had encountered the fruits of these hothouses on Earth. They flew beautifully, mysteriously, and silently, eliciting contradictory feelings in humans. Right behind the winter garden Danilov saw a sign: "Department of the Bermuda Triangle."

He pulled on the doorknob. In vain. Perhaps no one was in at the department. Perhaps they were all in the field.

He smelled pies. Danilov followed his nose and realized that he was approaching the Academy of Home Economics. Life had given Danilov some experience as a cook, polisher, and dishwasher, and he headed for the academy with interest. The employees of the academy worked with relish, even though their research and discoveries did not turn the world upside down but only caused minor damage. Apparently they liked their work. Some wrote, others stood by kitchen stoves and Primus stoves and kerosene burners; others squirted liquids onto parquet and mosaic floors; others set fire to wallpaper; others tried to vacuum up lace curtains, and still others, having spread snow on carpets, tried to beat dust from them with ramrods. Everywhere the work was serious. Scientists were compiling fake recipes for humans. The recipes had to look authentic, but one or two ingredients were incorrect. The fake recipes were sent to Earth and utilized in cookbooks for housewives, and in the pages of family magazines. On their desks Danilov saw a Philadelphia publication, and a women's weekly from Ouagadougou, and Woman Worker (which Danilov always leafed through at the Muravlyovs'). Now they were about to send down to Earth suggestions for making farina dumplings. "Some magazine is really going to get it," thought Danilov. "Angry letters will pour in from housewives whose dumplings fell apart in their pots! Well, at least Klavdia probably won't try to make these dumplings," he thought for some reason.

Turning a corner, he came upon the "Withering Laboratory." "Am I lost?" Danilov wondered. "Or is this some other withering?" Of course it didn't matter. They were developing methods for withering away love. Once upon a time the withering potions were made as bad-tasting powders. Now the potions were sweet and gooey. Danilov ate a light blue ball and said, "Not bad ..."

Fiery letters proclaimed the "Institute of Optimal Methods for Combing Mermaids' Green Hair." "Why such a mannered name?" thought Danilov. In the reception room sat a guard with a moustache, woolen leggings, and a smoker's cough. He let Danilov in reluctantly, demanding written permission, but Danilov said in an iron whisper, "I'm from Tertius, with ideas," and the guard relented. Danilov soon realized that there were good reasons for having an intimidating sentry. Many rooms in the institute had only numbers on their doors. Occasionally there were signs that led him to think the institute's name did not represent completely the breadth of the research it encompassed. For instance, Danilov was very interested by the division of mermaid sexopathology. It had subdivisions for Rhine, Missouri, Volga-Kamsk, Danube, and other mermaids. And there were subdivisions for shallow-water mermaids. Danilov grew excited: What if among the mermaids assigned to the institute he ran into one he knew -- a pretty one, naturally? He put a halt to such thinking: Really, of all the things to think about!

Then he saw a sign: "Scientific Group for Problems of Tickling." There was a lot of work to do here. With the tempo of today's lovemaking, it couldn't be easy for mermaids to find a pause for tickling. And if you don't tickle the client, then how do you turn him into a drowned man? And what about the memods of tickling? Nowadays, many once-popular methods seemed silly.

Danilov looked into the lab of the scientific group. On an Empire sofa, which could have come from the salon of Mme. Recamier, sat four mermaids in elastic costumes of the kind used in productions of Sadko. Their tails were in nylon sheaths with zippers, and only one had green hair; the others' hair were dyed red, violet, and silver, and they held umbrellas. When they saw Danilov, they reached out to him. "Oh, no! They'll tickle me!" Once upon a time he would have agreed to this experiment, but now he thought it wiser to run off.

Once again he noticed the sign about drowned musicians. They had an entire lab to themselves. There was logic in that. Drowned musicians had played for ages in the orchestras for water sprites and mermaids. Danilov looked around and realized that the main concern of the lab was the repertoire of such orchestras. Danilov heard Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, and others, a lullaby by Mozart, and a memorable folk song. This music must have been requested by the mermaids. They had to be kept happy. They were working in poisoned waters nowadays. "Enough mermaids!" thought Danilov. "I have to find New Margarit." He had to walk and walk to reach New Margarit.

Danilov hurried past the laboratories of Earthquakes, Sun Spots, Football Agitation, Lost Purses, False Pangs of Conscience, Stock-Market Crashes, Selection of Influenzas, Breakage of the Axis of Revolution of the Stars of the Big Dipper, Arguments over Prizes, and Spoiling the Kleiperon-Mendeleev Equation...

At last he came to the lakes, and then the suspension bridges, and then a gray castle that was the Institute of Basic Fundamental Knowledge. Here the doorman refused to allow Danilov in without a pass. Danilov grew angry and cursed the guards. He went around to the corner of the wall, spat on his hands, and crawled over, thereby dirtying his jeans.

Danilov had been at the institute once and remembered the layout. He learned that New Margarit was expected at any moment.

Danilov could not sit in some reception area, so he set off for a walk through the institute. He chatted with former classmates, and he listened to loud arguments among the learned. The theoreticians were working not only on global, intra- , and intergalactic problems, but also on more specialized issues, which as far as Danilov could see should have been solved by the laboratories they had come from.

The same group was extremely successful, Danilov heard, in its research under the code names "Brass Button" and "French Baguette." Once upon a time in many localities an evil wood goblin could easily be chased away by shooting a brass button at him. So over the centuries, the institute had come up with a thing or two against brass buttons. And now there was a need to protect demon workers of a more modern makeup than wood goblins from people.

As for "French Baguette," that had been brought up to date, too. Sometimes the activity of the workers from the Nine Layers had to be publicized among the Earth populace. Say some peasant flew somewhere on the back of a wood spirit. To the city. But who would believe him? So the peasant would take a French baguette out of his pocket: See, I told you I was in the city; here's the French bread. And all doubts were put to rest. Now you can fly without a wood spirit and to other places besides the city, but in order to convince people, you still had to show them some kind of French baguette. Theory couldn't stand still here, either.

Others dealt with global problems. Danilov heard many new buzz words and new expressions. Many were already current on Earth and had reached Danilov through the popular press. In one scholarly dispute they kept shouting the words "hyperspace!" "hypertravel!" Other words were being used, too: "subunit," "scintillation," "priming wave," "correlative memory," "isolated system," and so forth. Danilov was pleasantly surprised to learn that a demonstration with a French baguette was now called "the effect of contillusionist communications within given parameters." Not bad. The institute paid attention even to the achievements of other minds. Danilov saw a multitude of Earth publications, both scientific and popular, including a recent issue of Knowledge Is Power.

Danilov discovered that the problem of the origins of the Nine Layers was being more urgently pursued now. Many new hypotheses had surfaced. Of course, almost all of them were not very different from the old ones. But there were a few daring theories, which questioned the superiority of the inhabitants of the Nine Layers to, say, Earthlings. In particular, the hypothesis of the inside-out stocking, which posited that the pendulum of development was now rushing in the opposite direction. There was a certain sense of doom in this theory, and it was considered flawed.

There were also several solid, optimistic hypotheses. But they all had sticking points, too, Danilov learned. Why the big blue bull in the Nine Layers? What was he for? (Of course, the question was never put that baldly for fear of making the bull angry, in case such doubts ever reached him. But it was not at all clear why he was there and what would happen without him.) In Danilov's youth, no one ever talked about the big bull; his existence was considered self-explanatory. Now they were talking about him. And even with the present level of knowledge the origins of the big bull were mysterious. Did he take his position under the Nine Layers on his own, or was he placed there? Does he serve as a kind of basis and reason for the Nine Layers, or is he simply an animal?

The problem of the big blue bull usually was avoided, but everyone knew that he held the Nine Layers on his back, that he stood there, that he was alive and blinking. In short, the mystery of the big bull was of general concern. "Karmadon tried being a blue bull on Earth," thought Danilov, "in order to experience important observations and sensations...."

Danilov stood in a large auditorium, and gaped, as learned demons debated the transformation of evil. The scientists were practically shouting at each other, and they were clearly interested in having an audience. "You still think in terms of daggers, poisons, and the plague. But the bonfires no longer blaze on public squares!" shouted one scientist, waving an enormous yellow leather folder. His opponent was also angry, but he condescended to the other demon as being a fad-conscious blowhard. "Yes," he said, "but have you moved any farther away from that?"

And then New Margarit appeared. He had an entourage. It was obvious he was a star. The argument died as everyone looked at New Margarit and bowed to him. He quickly bowed back. As he passed Danilov, he noticed him, too.

"Come to see me in a half hour. I'll summon you," New Margarit said in passing and walked on.

39

A half hour later, Danilov entered the blue sphere, which floated in a room high in the castle. New Margarit sat on a couch upholstered in light blue velvet. Danilov looked around and saw soft oval bookshelves; metal shop tools; and lab tables, one with electronic apparatus, the other clearly for black magic. Something that sounded like a cricket made noise beyond the wall.

"Yes," New Margarit said with a nod, "I cannot work without a cricket. Sit down." He indicated the couch. "Well, Danilov, you're still young-looking and slender. How do I look to you? You probably didn't recognize me, do you?"

Actually, when Karmadon had described New Margarit back on Earth, he'd been unfair. Danilov had expected worse. Yes, New Margarit had grown older and was as bald as a Ceylonese soothsayer, but his body was still that of an athlete. In his youth New Margarit had been high-strung, but now he was obviously in a state of spiritual calm. Apparently he had learned much, and it had agreed with him.

"You've changed," Danilov said, returning New Margarit's familiar tone. "Now you are more serious and contented."

"Contented? I wonder." New Margarit smiled. Then he asked. "How's life, Danilov?"

"Not bad," Danilov replied. "Thanks. How about you?"

"As you can see ..."

"Yes, I can," Danilov said just in case.

"Were you summoned here?"

"Yes," Danilov said. "That is, summoned not to you, but here in general..."

"Uh-hum," New Margarit said in agreement.

"What a stupid conversation!" Danilov thought. "Why did I come here? Should I get up and leave?"

"You've rarely looked in at the Fifth Layer before..."

"There's much I don't understand here."

"There's much I don't understand!" New Margarit exclaimed happily. "I don't see the need for understanding much. And what I do understand, I cannot change."

"I think you exaggerate."

"Undoubtedly," New Margarit agreed. And was pleased again. "And even if I could change something, I am not usually so inclined."

"Is he talking about my problems?" thought Danilov. He spoke: "Perhaps that's why you seem contented to me...

But maybe you're bored?"

This question embarrassed Danilov himself. It should have been posed only to an equal and only during a frank conversation. Danilov would be put in his place, and quickly.

"No, I'm not," said New Margarit. "You aren't bored by your music, are you? I know, I know ... But I'm not bored yet. I'm not talking about the important things -- I still derive some amusement from even the silliest scientific arguments. It's fun. Even an empty brawl like the one you heard."

"Whose side were you on in that brawl?"

"Both are right. And both are wrong. Both are mediocrities. But one is more of an operator."

New Margarit shared these indiscretions as with an equal who held the same opinions. New Margarit had always been a liberal, and even though he was frequently complained about, he persisted in showing off his liberality. He had succeeded in his scientific career because many serious and self-disciplined personages who controlled his upward mobility secretly considered themselves liberals but could not allow themselves the latitude New Margarit did. So they expressed their own feelings by supporting him.

"Because he is an operator," New Margarit said, "he's managed to get better funding. But that goes without saying..."

The two brawling demons represented different approaches. Here New Margarit discoursed on the theory of the transformation of evil. In the Nine Layers, "evil" was a work term. Just a necessary component of their work. They determined what evil meant to various Earthlings and what kind of evil suited a particular era.

"But still," Danilov said, "what do you care about brass buttons? And why so much expense on mermaids? What do they have to do nowadays with what is going on on Earth?"

"You're mistaken about the mermaids," New Margarit said.

"Really?" Danilov replied.

"The more sophisticated a civilization becomes, the greater its interest in its own naпve childhood. Fashion turns to childhood fairy tales. You'll see, there'll be a nostalgia for witches and mermaids ... Overlayed with superiority, irony, and without fear, but still... We've seen this happen before. We had to set up new apparati at the stations of spiritual answers. More and more people on Earth were playing with Ouija boards, calling on the spirits. And we didn't have the power to move all those tables. That's why we're not skimping on mermaids now."

"I'll bet the mermaids are different now, too?"

"They are," New Margarit said.

And here Danilov asked New Margarit a question that he should not have asked:

"But what's the point? Not just in this case, but in general?"

"Danilov, really!" New Margarit merely spread his hands in dismay. It would have been appropriate for him to chase Danilov out of his blue sphere.

But New Margarit said nothing.

"Well," New Margarit said seriously, "we were having one conversation. And now it is turned into another... All right...

"Is there any point to our efforts? Say, on Earth? Yes? Here's what I'll tell you. There is little point to our efforts. Of course, we have made great strides, significant ones, but ... we are not really slowing down the course of human civilization."

"Who is, then?" Danilov demanded. Actually, he knew the answer!

"Humans themselves," New Margarit said. "And you know that."

"Yes, I have made some observations," Danilov agreed.

"That's why I answered your question. I would have been afraid to confuse anyone else's mind. But I know who you are."

"Who am I?" Danilov asked warily.

"Really, Danilov, this is too much."

"No, who am I?" Danilov said with a touch of injury in his voice.

"Danilov, I know... In any case, you're not a demon. Let's drop it. You asked me about the point... So. Man himself is the most energetic in advancing the course of his civilization. And man himself is far more successful than anyone else -- us in particular -- at hindering that course."

"Perhaps that is as it should be?"

"You see, in certain civilizations we actually were on our toes and really shook up things. But man ... he's a creature apart... he is uncontrollable. Alas. He has self-reliance. He is imaginative and creative."

"And what is your solution?"

"I won't answer that... But I will say this. If we only created ferment, enraged Earthlings, if we merely hindered them, led them into delusions and violence, if we had only similar concerns in other civilizations, we ourselves would be insignificant. We'd be servants of Faust. But that's boring. It's humiliating, finally. No, something exists in us that is ours alone, inner-directed, independent of other systems of civilizations. And that gives the existence of the Nine Layers its own lofty meaning... There has to be one..."

"Do you know what it is?" Danilov asked.

"I can guess," said New Margarit. "But not all are given that knowledge."

"But there is the Big Revelation," Danilov said, seemingly amazed by New Margarit's words. "To see everything through and through and along the diagonal. The past, the present, and the future. To sense eternity. We were taught that in the lyceum. What do we need science for if we already know everything? What do we need doctrines for?"

"You," New Margarit said wearily, "were never known for your brains."

"That's true," Danilov agreed readily.

"That's why I liked you. Even though sometimes you were merely pretending to be naive and a fool... you're doing it now... you have your own ideas. What of the Big Revelation! What of sensing eternity! What of seeing everything through and through! What of these magical powers compared to human capabilities!"

"Is it attainable -- the truth? Is it necessary?"

"I don't know ... But for the sake of what do I deny? And for the sake of what do I cognize? My reason is not satisfied. And it torments me. It makes me think. Lofty thoughts. The kind to which the arguers in the corridor cannot aspire. The Big Revelation, since it is given to me just like that and for no known reason, elicits doubts in me, as a rational creature. Are they pulling my leg? Sometimes it seems they are. But maybe they're not. That is my misfortune. And that is my delight. You are not a thinker: You shun the Big Revelation and the sense of eternity -- they would only interfere with your life. And everything of ours is alien to you. Don't argue. But I can't reject or accept them just like that. I must know the truth."

"Then it is attainable? Is it necessary?"

"I don't know! I don't ... As for the majority of the research in the Fifth Layer, you probably realized that it is primarily for practical use. Sometimes without any higher goal. But it must proceed from current doctrine. Why? Because it must be so. If it must, then it must..."

"But you said that you were interested even in the arguments in the halls, pseudoscientific though they be."

"I am!" New Margarit said. "They interest me! I'm still active; I like intrigues, games. Truly, very few things bore me yet. And even if I do not agree with certain things and ideas, I get involved with them, and they become mine... But I still get sick of it sometimes... Why do I bother? Where am I going? ... Why are we here?"

"I'm afraid I can't soothe your doubts," Danilov said.

New Margarit looked at him in silence for a long time. Then he said: "Too bad. I would have listened to you. If only because you are put together differently than we are."

"Who do you take me for?"

"I know who."

"You are in error," Danilov said just in case.

"Well," said New Margarit with a sigh, "maybe I am. But even so, I do not regret speaking out; it brought me relief. And you are a good conversationalist. You hear me out today, and tomorrow you are gone."

"Just like Karmadon!" thought Danilov.

"And I will forget all this," New Margarit said. "And though doubts will not visit me often, I am incapable of mutiny."

"Listen, where does the big bull come from? Is he part of the Nine Layers, or is the Nine Layers part of him?"

"Don't even think about the big bull," New Margarit said severely.

"You mean it's a secret? You mean the Big Revelation is not fully revealing?"

"Let's drop it." New Margarit looked grim. "Don't make it worse for yourself."

They were silent for a while. "What did he expect from me?" thought Danilov. When New Margarit spoke of his doubts, he clearly looked to him with hope, as if Danilov would say or do something so extraordinary. What did he take Danilov for? It would be all right, if he took him for a human. But it probably was for something more than just a human. Danilov even felt sad that he could not help New Margarit.

They spoke some more. Danilov asked about the work of the labs and workshops. New Margarit told him how they polished monsters now. Danilov recalled the artificial intellects and asked if they worked well. It turned out that most of them were gathering dust in warehouses.

"He must be relaxed about me now," Danilov thought. "He's not expecting anything from me anymore."

"Do you know why they summoned me?"

"I do," New Margarit said with a nod.

"And how do you find my situation?"

"Hopeless ... if you are who you pretend to be."

And New Margarit looked at Danilov significantly, as if he expected an important confession.

"I'm not pretending to be anyone," Danilov said angrily. He got up. New Margarit got up. He even made a move toward Danilov, as if he wanted to embrace his old pal. But he didn't embrace him, he merely slapped him on the back.

"Well, go," he said, "and conquer your pride."

Danilov's mouth dropped open in surprise.

"Pride? I thought pride was always considered a virtue in the Nine Layers. One that I lacked."

"You don't know yourself very well. Anyway, so long."

"So long," Danilov said.

And he left the blue sphere.

40

"He knew that I wanted to ask him something," thought Danilov as he lay on his hotel bed. "But maybe just seeing me and talking seriously to me was a good deed on his part? Whom does he want to see in me? What does he suspect? I came as a petitioner, but it seemed that he had an interest in my visit. He sought something from me, he hoped for something, he even expected that I was capable of supporting him. Maybe he expected me to understand his inner self, expected sympathy from me, needed it? Or maybe he simply wanted to show himself that he was still a liberal and not afraid to wander about on conversational thin ice even with a condemned man?"

Days passed. Danilov was not disturbed. Now he would have been happy to see Valentin Sergeyevich. Danilov would have demeaned himself, and asked if there was any word on when he was to vanish. But Ugrael, the demon from the Arabian deserts, ran into Danilov frequently. Now Ugrael did not wear his burnoose and Danilov could see him clearly. His face was astonishing. All its parts -- nose, eyes, ears, and so on -- existed independently and could change places. Ugrael eagerly spoke about Moscow, but Danilov did not encourage such conversations. Sometimes he even spoke insolently to Ugrael, but the latter did not notice.

Danilov felt insolent now. He wanted to protest. He wanted to do something so outrageous that it would drive his investigators into a frenzy. Then they would get a move on. But Danilov did not know how to create such a scandal. Suddenly he had an idea: "Why not fly off somewhere?"

Constantly looking over his shoulder, Danilov walked through the Fourth Layer right up to the crystal wall. No, no one was running after him. Danilov opened the crystal door and stepped out of the Nine Layers. He flung out his arms and flew. He flew near stars and planets, and enjoyed the view and the joy of soaring. He felt good. Danilov recalled that three and a half centuries ago Kepler thought that there was a music of the spheres. He even expressed it in musical notation. Danilov decided to agree with Kepler for the time being. He had agreed with him periodically in the past. Because of the music. Now Danilov dunked himself in Kepler's version of the world, and the heavenly bodies resounded as he flew past.

Danilov liked listening to the music of the planets of the solar system. He already knew well the melodies of each, knew their voices. He was particularly moved by Mars. It did not sound with the roar of military horns. On the contrary, it was a tender, light-blue voice. In truth, Danilov did not like all the melodies. But, trying to be objective, he told himself that he might have missed something on first hearing and that he should listen to them all again. Perhaps then he would come to accept and love them all. And he recalled that this soaring in the universe might not be repeated. Immediately the melodies of the planets and stars began to sound sorrowful and even tragic. The universe seemed to bid him farewell. "Nonsense!" Danilov said severely. "They change melodies rarely, and then only when there are cataclysms. They wouldn't start to sound different just because some viola player was flying past. I've got to listen to their music as it really is, since I've been given this opportunity, and not make anything up."

A young star sang triumphantly in a molten voice. A herd of meteors sounded like a xylophone and veered off. An orange planet, feeling sorry for itself, sounded like a rusty anchor chain. A small planet whirled by, reminding Danilov of a tarantella rhythm. There were also sounds that Danilov was hearing for the first time. "What voices!" thought Danilov. "What sounds!"

He flew into a small solar system whose star resembled the sun. It had five living planets. He thought: "Why not rest here?" He selected a spot that seemed good acoustically and lay down in a comfortable position, with his arms behind his back. He shut his eyes, and listened. A sextet seemed to be playing just for him. Naturally, not the one with which Danilov gave performances. There was nothing earthly about this sextet. Yet there was something ... the voice of the star sounded brighter and stronger than the others' -- it had a feeling of superiority and even power over them, and yet did not separate itself from the others. Each planet sang its own melody, and each also carried (in its own way) the theme of the star. They conveyed (or so it seemed to Danilov) a proud unity of six heavenly bodies: "We are one! We are one in the universe!" As Danilov grew accustomed to this local music, he liked it more and more. "What's that?" Danilov said in surprise. The voice of the third planet from the star ("stand number four") suddenly changed and, as one of its components, came the sounds of the viola. Yes, the viola! Danilov could not be mistaken. Now the music moved him even more.

"Oh, if only this could go on for eternity..."

Danilov came to his senses. "What am I lying around for? They'll miss me any second!" But why be afraid? That's just what he wanted -- for them to miss him. He should just stay here, listening to the music. But impatience drove him on. "To Taurus!" Danilov commanded.

Now he did not fly, he transported himself. With such zeal that he almost crashed into the planet, where, according to Danilov's information, his father lived. Danilov dispensed with Kepler's version of the universe and he could not hear the planet's melody. It was not only soundless but also lifeless. Everything was covered with yellow dust. The sky above was yellow, and in spots, brown. Danilov looked around the planet and discovered a chain of not-too-high mountains, unfortunately also yellow-brown. He did not see a single hut or tent. Well, well... he shook his head.

The information about his father could have been false. But what if it weren't? How should he look for him? Where? And why? Why had he zoomed off here so impulsively? It was one thing to annoy the investigators and create a scandal. But what was he going to do here? What did his father need with him? What did he need with his father? Who was his father? He had never seen him, did not know him, never felt he even had a father, even though he had wanted one in his childhood. What could he say to him now? "Hello, old man, I'm your son" -- that sort of thing? "What nonsense!" Danilov said, angry with himself. And yet he knew he could not leave right away. He had to try to see his father, if even from a distance. At first he explained this desire as simple curiosity. Then he thought it had to be something more ... what exactly, he did not know.

"How does he live in this dust, and where? How will I find him? Should I just call out, 'Yoo-hoo!'? That's silly. And another thing: Just because I have a need, however vague, to see him doesn't mean that he has a need to see me. Why should I force myself on him?"

Then he thought: What if his father had wanted to see him all these years but had never had the opportunity? Why deprive him of the opportunity now? Would he even know that he was his son? Danilov flew over the planet but could not discover any signs of life. "There's no one here," Danilov decided.

He was tired. He sat down on a cliff, on the rocks.

Suddenly, below in the valley, there was a movement.

Something yellow (dust? liquid? a mass?) boiled up. It rose in a column, turbulent and ferocious, and flew off. Everywhere there were yellow whirlwinds, the mountains trembled, the whole planet seemed about to turn into a dust storm. But the mountains did not crumble, the planet did not change course. Thick wild dust clouds scurried near the cliffs where Danilov sat. "How can there be wind in this atmosphere?" thought Danilov. "It must be he thinks I'm an enemy. Or an insignificant and random violator of his peace. Or perhaps he only exists in the form of dust clouds and cannot show himself to me in any other form."

This last supposition of Danilov's turned out to be erroneous: Very soon in one of the clouds diere appeared the figure of a flying old man, in a furiously flowing white chiton. His lips were pursed, as if he wanted to blow down everything in his path. His straight gray hair waved wonderfully in the air currents.

Danilov rose. He was agitated. He wanted to call out, but he could not even whisper. The old man noticed him and turned in his direction. He flew over to Danilov and stopped abruptly. Danilov was ready to say with a groan "Father!" and throw himself at the old man. But his father held him with his gaze, not allowing him to make a single move. Then he threw up his hands in a nervous gesture, recoiled from Danilov, and flew off.

Danilov almost flew after him, but the old man had not indicated in any way that he wished him to do this, so Danilov remained on the cliff. The old man traveled so far into the distance that he appeared as small as a dust mote.

"How handsome he is," thought Danilov, "and how horrible. He does not look like me at all... He is out of some tragedy ... But his eyes, those eyes ... He understood who it was before him, I felt that in an instant... However, he looked so strange afterward..." The old man hadn't looked merely strange. His gaze had seemed mad.

It had been hinted to Danilov more than once that his father probably had lost his mind. They said that was why he had been spared and allowed to go to a distant planet as a voluntary settler. There were other opinions. But now the old man's eyes horrified him.

"I'm in the way here," Danilov thought. "He's seen me, I've seen him, and that's enough. He's a stranger to me and I'm a stranger to him. What could he say?"

It was just after these considerations that the old man reappeared. He rushed past the cliff, turned back, and made an imperious gesture with his arm (or wing?) to follow. Danilov flew after. The old man did not turn around again, assuming that his one gesture had been enough for the visitor. He was handsome and majestic in his flowing chiton. Danilov considered his own outfit (pigskin jacket and jeans) inappropriate now, too casual, and he was embarrassed. They flew a long time, but with the same yellow plain always below them, they seemed to stay in one place. Finally some dreary hills appeared. The old man stopped, raised his hand to his eyes, and looked in the distance, as if to check that everything was all right. Circling, circling, like a heavy bird, he began descending to the hills. Danilov saw a black slit... a cave ... That must be his shelter ... They flew into the cave. The old man did not turn around.

Danilov grew accustomed to the dark immediately. There were two stones in the cave. The bigger one was flat on top and served as a table; the other was smaller, a stool.

A heart-constricting feeling of filial guilt assaulted Danilov. He wanted to do something for the old man. But what? How? "Poor old man," Danilov kept repeating to himself. "Poor lonely old man."

The old man waved his arm-wings, his bushy white eyebrows met in consternation, and Danilov and his host found themselves in a marble palace hall where at least a hundred gladiators could do battle. The room was lit from above, where the hot midday sun beat into wide openings that had never known glass. Water splashed in a marble pool, bronze and ivory glistened. The old man sat in an armchair with a high back and armrests -- as majestic as a throne. The palace was clearly Roman, in the time of the Empire. The assembled people were important -- they mostly wore togas and some had armor.

They were expecting someone, probably the emperor. The emperor arrived. Danilov did not recognize him. (Caesar? Augustus? How could he expect to recognize him?) He figured that it probably was Caesar.

Everything proceeded with pomp, and Danilov saw that the most important man here was not Caesar, but the old man in the white cotton. The old man waved an arm, and the Romans disappeared. ("Was Cicero among them?" Danilov wondered belatedly.)

Danilov was in the marvelous Hall of Mirrors by Hardouin-Mansart. On the right through the windows were the main allйe, the pools with Chinese goldfish, the water parterre, and to the left, in the mirrors, the guests and the trees of the park. Above was the red, green, and light blue sky by the painter Lebrun. On the intricate parquetry ladies in convoluted hairdos and gendemen in feathers -- puppets by Watteau -- danced in the candlelight of thousands of silver chandeliers to the soft, gallant sounds of the orchestra. They brought joy to Danilov with their movements, costumes, and scents. Among the dancers was the Sun King. ("Fine cuffs!" Danilov noted.)

The old man beckoned to Louis with a dry finger. The king made apologies to his lady and quickly, though not forgetting he was the king, came over to the old man. The old man whispered something to him. Louis was taken aback, but thanked the old man and bowed. A young lady was immediately summoned to Louis, who began a courdy conversation with her. From the way his eyes were sparkling Louis had obviously been pleased by the old man's suggestions. (The Hall of Mirrors was two steps away from the king's bedroom: Hardouin-Mansart had thought of everything.) "Who is she?" Danilov wondered. "Could it be Mademoiselle de La Valliиre? She really is pretty ... How could I have missed her? ..." Danilov reached toward the girl.

But the Hall of Mirrors disappeared, and Danilov found himself near the Belgian village of Waterloo. It was chilly and his jeans were not warm enough. Toward the middle of the battle, when things started to look bad for Wellington, Danilov stopped feeling cold.

Danilov could not say for sure whether the old man was putting on a show for him or whether the old man himself was interested in these events. And suddenly the limits of the old man's world came apart, and people from all ages and nations appeared. The old man sat on his throne, huge now, and spread his arms, embracing his entire world, as if to declare: "It's all mine!"

"And if you want, it will be yours!" Danilov heard and shuddered. No, the old man's lips had not moved. "It was my imagination," Danilov decided. "And he should have had a bass voice, and that was a tenor..." Here the old man flew down from his throne, and leveled his eyes with Danilov's. Danilov was stunned, frightened, and he noticed again that for an instant the old man's gaze was sharp and wise. But immediately after it became mad. The old man flung up his arms, as he had at the cliff, and shook his head bitterly.

The light dimmed, and Danilov was in the cave once more, alone.

Danilov made his way out of the cave. "Is that it?" he thought. "Did he say good-bye to me? ... But I didn't to him..."

For some reason Danilov was certain that he would find the old man near the cliff where he had first appeared. No, the old man wasn't there. Danilov went down to the crevasse and found the old man. He was lying on the rocks, his face to the sky. "Did he crash?" Danilov worried. He did not have the nerve to walk up to him. The old man was breathing. His eyes were shut. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Danilov took a step toward the old man. But a transformation took place. Now a tanned, naked youth lay before Danilov. His body could have been a model for Praxiteles. The young man looked at Danilov and in his eyes Danilov saw madness. The youth rose, looked up, raised his hand, and the sky turned blue. The mountains came alive, and turned green. White and pink temples sprang up on them, mountain streams began to gurgle, and creatures from the Hellenic Golden Age surrounded the youth. He looked at Danilov questioningly, as if expecting important words from him. Danilov was silent. Nymphs moved toward him in a slow deep-purple dance, accompanied by Pan's divine pipes. Danilov was silent. The youth trembled, and once more turned into an old man. The white and pink temples vanished, as did the nymphs and satyrs. Everything was now covered with luxurious orchid growths. Danilov was silent. The old man flew up to him again, looked into his eyes again, and once again seemed to recoil from him. Then with his wild eyes he indicated a point in the sky. He pointed in that direction, then hunched over and flew off.

"Now that's it," thought Danilov. "And we didn't exchange a single word. Maybe the truth exists beyond words..."

41

Danilov opened the crystal door into the Nine Layers without difficulty. They hadn't locked the door, they had not set any traps. Why would they set traps?

Danilov tossed off his jacket and lay down on the bed. So much for his flight. Danilov had been offered a different way of organizing his life. But the old man had understood Dan-ilov's attitude toward the world. And having understood it, he pointed a bony finger ... but where? Danilov asked for a star atlas, then determined which stars could be seen from the yellow planet. It looked as if the old man had been pointing at the solar system. At Earth. If only he were in charge of things ...

Danilov's knowledge of his father's past was murky. He never could determine exactly what his father's free-thinking had involved, why he had been called a Voltairean. Back in those days, just having an affair with a human (if they considered the affair serious) was enough to get punished. But was he really mad? Danilov recalled the briefly sharp and wise gaze of the old man. Maybe that was just his way, or maybe...

"But he's probably happy with his world," thought Danilov. He doesn't merely look at amusing pictures, he creates. It's interesting, but not for me. It's not life, it's a game, it's secondhand... Why play at life when you can simply live?"

Danilov felt warmth and compassion for the old man, but that was one thing; he felt no family tie to him. Danilov blamed himself, called himself callous. However, he could not kindle filial feelings in himself... But his visit to the yellow planet had not been in vain, not at all.

"Really, why not play the old man's game?" Danilov began daydreaming. He would have liked, say, to appear in 1732 near the Leipzig Thomaskirche, to see the cantor there. Still vigorous at age forty-seven, he had just written the Coffee Cantata. He would stride over to Danilov, pull out a sheaf of papers from his camisole, and say: "Here, Danilov, I've dedicated a viola concerto to you. I'd be honored if you'd perform it..."

"That's impossible!" Danilov cut off his daydream. He got up. He was angry. When were they going to call him at last? Think of all the money they were wasting on him. Danilov was incensed... He was also hungry, and so he decided to go to the restaurant and eat and drink so much that the financial services would report on the great expense of keeping Danilov in the Fourth Layer of Hospitality for extended periods.

Just as Danilov sat down at the table, Ugrael came up. "Him again," thought Danilov angrily.

Ugrael's ears were wandering around his face, passing by his nose and eyes.

"Have a seat," Danilov suggested.

"What have you ordered?" Ugrael asked.

"Grouse on a spit, I think," Danilov said.

"I'll have the oysters."

"Why not?" thought Danilov, getting into the swing of things. "The grouse is good! As long as it's crusty and covered with marinated mushrooms." At that instant Danilov was grabbed by the scruff of his neck -- his collar dug into his throat like a noose -- and dragged off.

Danilov dangled in the air, choking, and making clumsy movements with his arms and legs. He was conked on the head and lost consciousness for a minute. When he came to, he saw that he was sitting on a hard chair, strapped to the back. "Why the straps?" thought Danilov indignantly.

He faced a black wall. Written in fiery letters on it was: Time X! Time X! Time X! The words danced and bounced and leaped at Danilov, growing larger for an instant and bursting into white flames. Then came a persistent, whining sound, and when it died away, the fiery words also died away. Danilov saw that his chair was in a high-ceilinged room that resembled the lyceum auditorium. He was high up, in the balcony. The room was empty, but very soon a tiny figure appeared where the lectern should loom. "Valentin Sergey-evich!"

Valentin Sergeyevich had on the same pince-nez in which Danilov first saw him at the meeting of house spirits on Argunovskaya Street. But back then he wore a jacket, and now he wore a Tolstoyan peasant shirt with a silk cord around his waist. He held a wastebasket, a broom, and dustpan. Danilov was astonished by this. The fiery letters had announced Time X, but there seemed to be an error. The floor hadn't been swept, and the judges, investigators, and executioners had not arrived. They had sent out Valentin Sergeyevich to sweep up. He was trying very hard. Only on earth and only with Danilov had he dared to be insolent, because he knew that Danilov's position was shaky. Here his every gesture, his every feature, gave evidence (to whom?) that he was a miserable creature and knew his place. Danilov even felt sorry for him. "Look how rough it is on the worker," thought Danilov. "How is his lot any better than mine?"

Then there was an explosion. As if Valentin Sergeyevich had stepped on a mine. The smoke cleared gradually, and there was revealed Valentin Sergeyevich. But not quite the same Valentin Sergeyevich. He was changing before Danilov's eyes. His face was turning imperious, the pince-nez melted away. The peasant shirt turned into a suit with gold trim. He grew taller and heavier, and now he was the severe and mighty chief of the Chancery of the Other World Danilov's eyes smarted. So this was the real Valentin Sergeyevich! The Chief of the Chancery himself had taken an interest in Danilov and his errors. He must have taken satisfaction hiding in the skin of an insignificant creature, a miserable wretch, an old man running messages and knowing full well that the moment would come when he would drop his bombshell.

Valentin Sergeyevich -- Danilov could not call the Chief of the Chancery anything but Valentin Sergeyevich -- gazed sternly at Danilov. Yet he had already created the desired effect. Feeling that the time had come, Valentin Sergeyevich seemed to press a button, and it began for Danilov.

The light in the room turned electric blue, due to a lamp like the ones used in the 1940s to cure colds. The light grew thicker and darker, making Danilov feel depressed. His chair began shaking, then was swept up and carried down, then back up to the right. The chair was like one of those horrid rides at a fair that should not be ridden by people with bad hearts or inner-ear troubles. He spun faster and faster. Danilov clutched the straps -- he was glad to have them now. Now they were the only things that could save him, he thought.

Danilov was so disgusted that he really did want to vanish for good.

But now the chair was bouncing harder, as if it were on a cobblestone road, or in the middle of a logjam. But then the speed was reduced and the light was not as thick and weird. Faces flashed past Danilov -- he recognized some of them.

Valentin Sergeyevich's Deputy of Rules and Regulations flew into the blue light, along with coworkers of Valentin Sergeyevich from the Chancery of the Other World, high officials from the Chancery of Order, and learned gentlemen, including New Margarit. Their eyes were stern and ready to punish.

Danilov had the feeling that his judges in their chairs (or perhaps on divans) were also flying. He had heard that hearings on the fate of demons who had particularly displeased the chanceries took place in the most varied circumstances: simply in the dark, with nothing but voices; in rooms that looked like courtrooms on Earth; in official offices, with shouts and fists banging on desks; in historical dress, with the rack and wheel, hot irons, and guillotines, which, incidentally, were not used but were simply there for atmosphere. Danilov had obviously gotten something that was not quite a carousel but had a lot of carousel in it.

A flash of light illuminated Valentin Sergeyevich's face and he intoned:

"The fate is being decided of demon by contract, Danilov, Vladimir Alekseyevich."

42

A new flash of light revealed the Deputy of Rules and Regulations in the darkness of nonbeing. The deputy intoned slowly, majestically, and reproachfully.

He spoke for a long time, going into detail, naming Dan-ilov's errors, dubious thoughts, manner of behavior, and pretensions in seventy-three instances. To be fair he noted that Danilov did not waste money; on the contrary, Danilov saved official funds. But that had no bearing on the issues at hand. He had violated many of the terms of the agreement, which upon signing in blood from his blue vertical vein had made him a demon on contract. He violated some even now, after being summoned to the Nine Layers with the announcement of Time X. The violations of the terms of the agreement in themselves were nothing terrible; these violations could have been handled through normal official channels. But the point was not in the violation of the contract.

The point was that either out of self-interest or for no particular reason, Danilov, judging from his actions and mode of thinking, was now more human than demon. In addition, Danilov had lately come to believe that he was a great musician, and was intending through his music to place himself beyond the Nine Layers or even above them.

"What does music have to do with it?" Danilov burst out.

The deputy disregarded Danilov's words and said that not only was Danilov bad, but also he was setting a bad example. Danilov was mired in humanity, had given in to human temptations and perversions ...

"Where's the proof?" Danilov demanded, surprising himself. What was he giving them trouble for?

"The proof will come," said Valentin Sergeyevich in a calm voice.

Naturally, it would. Danilov was subdued immediately.

"Therefore," continued Valentin Sergeyevich's deputy, Danilov must no longer be a demon."

"Will they transfer me to humans?" thought Danilov.

But making him simply human, the deputy went on, would not be wise. It would be a simplistic solution. No, the villain must be punished. Danilov must be deprived of existence and all memory of him wiped out.

The deputy went out like a light and no one replaced him.

"Grind him to dust!" came a lone outcry.

But it was not supported. Danilov's chair floated and turned, and everyone was silent.

"Well," Valentin Sergeyevich said, "let us move on to an examination of the materials on Danilov's life."

"What a nightmare!" thought Danilov in agony. "They'll show everything now! They've probably seen me in the bathroom. And they'll show it now. Why don't they get it over with? Everything's clear! Everything!"

He considered his fate sealed, and he could not summon the strength to resist. Nor did he wish to.

"But before moving to the examination, we would like to pose a question to Danilov. Clarification is needed about one thing. Listen to this," he suggested (apparently to everyone).

The sounds that issued forth seemed familiar. "Where have I heard them before?" Danilov thought. Danilov suddenly felt that if he were to understand what he was hearing, things would be easier for him somehow. The sounds were nervous, sometimes confused, almost weary, but you could feel the power of an active will in them. Some had a life of their own, some lined up in unexpected rows. But there was definitely a connection among them all. "It's music!" Danilov decided. "Music!" And it wasn't because many of the sounds were made by musical instruments -- had they been made by the blades of a windmill or fire hoses, Danilov would still have identified them as music. "I'm not hearing this for the first time, either," Danilov told himself.

Suddenly Danilov identified the theme from the finale of Janneau de Lequerelle's Rondo. Danilov practically jumped up from his chair, almost tore the straps. He understood. It was his own, inner music! "So that's it! That's it!" he thought.

This was the music that had always sounded within him. But he was listening to it for the first time.

And not from the pit, but as if he were in the tenth row of the great conservatory hall. The appearance of the theme from the finale of the Rondo surprised Danilov a bit, because he had been striving for independence of late. But, he decided, there was nothing wrong in using a theme from an old master.

"When did I think and feel that way?" Danilov wondered. And it came to him. In the black Well of Anticipation. That's where. That's where it had been recorded! But why listen to it now? What was Valentin Sergeyevich trying to clarify? And then Danilov thought, "They must be mixed up! They can't understand what their sensitive equipment has picked up! And they'll never understand!" Danilov knew that he might be exaggerating and that they might understand everything. But still he allowed himself to gloat, he allowed himself to listen to his own music with pleasure.

As in the Well, visions beleaguered Danilov; the same galaxies and universes, the essences of things and phenomena crowded around him, and Danilov was given the sensation of eternity, which had been later excised from his memory. It all had elicited this music. And now he could listen to it!

His viola played themes from Pereslegin's symphony, or the sextet played Handel's Passacaglia.

Some of the combinations of sounds aroused his indignation, but Danilov quickly came to the conclusion that any protest was groundless. Such combinations were, indeed, possible; it was just that they were new to him, too. They surprised him, even though he himself had created them.

"This music is interesting! It should be played somewhere else," he thought. The music sounded tragic, even the silences -- and there were frequent and long rests -- which conveyed tension and horror, but there was also energy, and faith, and moments of peace and hope.

"That's all," Valentin Sergeyevich said. And he turned to Danilov: "What is this stuff?"

"What do you mean?" Danilov was surprised.

"That which we were forced to listen to just now."

"Who forced you?"

"Be serious. What is this?"

"It is music."

"What?"

"It is music," Danilov said firmly and even with a certain hauteur.

"All right," Valentin Sergeyevich said. "Let's assume it is music. Why does it resound inside you? As if you contained a hundred instruments."

"What is the clarification you seek?"

"Answer the question," Valentin Sergeyevich demanded.

"I'm a musician," Danilov said. "I'm possessed. Music inhabits my body. There's no place I can go to get away from it. It torments me.

"Do you remember under what circumstances you composed and performed the music that was just played back?"

"Yes," Danilov said. "In the Well of Anticipation."

"Is it an aural reaction to what you saw and experienced there?"

"Not quite," Danilov said. "It's independent, although, of course, I saw and thought about much then. But I was making up music at the same time. I'm like that."

"He's making things up now! But it's not music!" one of the demons cried out impatiently. "And that wasn't music we heard! I used to play the cimbalom and the clavichord. Music doesn't contain sounds like that. And it shouldn't. What we heard was delirium, not music! Take this part, for instance." The demon played back the section that had outraged him.

Danilov sat there, almost insulted. To call it delirium! What did they know? After all, his music contained episodes that were very simple, with well-developed themes and even playful motifs, with perfectly clear four- or eight-bar phrases, and dance themes. How could you call that delirium? Where was the muddle? Of course, there were very complex passages, but the one pointed out by the cimbalom player was not among them.

"What's so unusual about that?" Danilov asked heatedly. "In Earth music that sort of composition has been known since the turn of the century. It is not my invention. Only the theme is mine. I used twelve-tone technique."

Valentin Sergeyevich cut him off: "There is no need for further discussion of music."

"But," blustered Danilov, "I am being accused of writing inconsequential music, and I cannot -- "

"Enough," Valentin Sergeyevich said curtly. "That's all."

He grew silent. Danilov was confused. The pause dragged on. Valentin Sergeyevich was either waiting for new material or carrying on a conference with the other demons. "They didn't understand a thing," thought Danilov. "The clarification didn't help, either. That twelve-tone fragment may be too advanced for them, but only an ignoramus could discount it as music. Ignoramuses should not be let off easily..."

"So," said Valentin Sergeyevich, "having heard these sounds, we are convinced that they are evidence of one thing: In the Well of Anticipation you were presented with images that should have elicited certain reactions in a demon and others in a human. And the responses were tied to the essence of the universe. In your thoughts, in your blood pressure, in your bioenergy, and in your so-called music, you proved yourself to be human. Images dear to demons elicited distaste and sometimes even outright rejection from you."

"What does my music have to do with it?" Danilov asked. "Take a serious look at it. Where is there distaste in it? Where's there rejection?"

He was astonished at his temerity, his rebelliousness. After hearing the music and admitting he was a musician, he felt himself to be the equal of anyone in the world. Why should he be afraid of Valentin Sergeyevich? Danilov realized that they would take the music apart with calculators and show him the distaste and the rejection, but he could not keep silent.

"The conversation about music is over," Valentin Sergeyevich said. "Anyway, the episode in the Well of Anticipation was minor, the final test. It wasn't even necessary. Let us move on to other evidence. Begin."

Danilov's chair stopped moving, and he became an unwilling spectator. But while he had been confident about the music, now he expected to be embarrassed. "Well, let them look, if this was part of their job. Let them!" So Danilov said to himself, but he was crestfallen.

The wall opposite Danilov turned white, and living pictures began. And once more Danilov was forced to appreciate the quality of the reproduction. You could see every mote of dust. Every rustle could be heard. Every odor hit you in the nose.

The show was accompanied by commentary from Valentin Sergeyevich and his deputy. When necessary, the pictures were stopped, and the jurors asked questions. Valentin Sergeyevich and his deputy explained, using long pointers on the images. Danilov was often called on to respond. He was argumentative and often disagreed with Valentin Sergeyevich. At first, they brought up trifles: Here he was in the skies above Ostankino, and hurrying down to treat the geography teacher with a glass of vodka.

"That's a purely human gesture," Valentin Sergeyevich commented. "Kindness."

"Why do you say that?" Danilov was quick to argue. "You seem to forget that alcohol is an evil. I managed within the forms acceptable on Earth to poison the geography teacher. What did I do wrong there?"

In a similar way Danilov turned into an achievement burning down the dormitory at the Planerskoye spa. He interpreted the incident with the house spirit Georgii Nikolaevich, whom Danilov had infected with the flu, as an attempt to spread pestilence throughout the entire building.

"And what's this?! What's this?!" demanded a nervous demon. They were showing Danilov leading a half-blind old lady across the street near the Shcherbakovskay metro station. (Danilov did not remember this particular incident, for he had helped many an old lady cross, and he thought, "Are they really stooping this low?")

"That's me helping an old lady," Danilov said.

"How are you going to get out of this one?" the demon said with a howl.

Danilov said, "If I didn't follow ordinary human behavior on Earth, who would trust me?"

His last comment apparently had some effect on Valentin Sergeyevich. He even added, "Anyway, old ladies should be saved so that they can be a pain in the ass for the young." No more such episodes were shown. The editors of the material were going to pay for this.

Then the spectators saw many scenes from Danilov's Moscow life. The jury members went down into the pit of the theater and followed Danilov on orchestra tours. With particular interest, they watched scenes from Danilov's romances -- once in a while there would even be cries of approval. Trembling, Danilov awaited the appearance of Natasha. But neither Natasha nor Karmadon were shown. Maybe they really weren't going to mention Karmadon or anything to do with him. Or they were saving him in case of extreme need. All he could do was sit and wait.

Even though it was his own life that was being shown, Danilov felt that he was watching a film or a play. He observed his friends as actors. He was surprised by himself, naturally. He was also depressed, in part. He had had a completely different conception of his own appearance and manners. "What a disgusting mug!" Danilov thought. "And look at that posture!"

Danilov tried to give a logical explanation for every trifle.

Valentin Sergeyevich finally stopped him. "Enough."

"What do you mean?"

"Enough. That's it. The examination of evidence is over. We have the final word."

"But..." Danilov could not stop.

Then he understood. That was it. They would now pronounce sentence. And they had not brought up Karmadon! Or Natasha! Why look for trouble?

Valentin Sergeyevich announced, "You have seen the materials of the case. In his excuses Danilov was inventive and energetic; it was amusing to listen to him. But his words are one thing, and what we know about him, another. Before me lie, indisputably, the facts of our special research. They testify that Danilov's feelings and actions at the most varied critical moments have been human. His music is not important for us. Thus I support the formulation of a punishment: Demon on contract Danilov should be deprived of existence and all memory of him trampled."

" 'His music is not important...' Yet they stole my Albani!" Danilov thought pathetically. But why even think about the Albani, since the punishment had been formulated, and the execution would not be delayed? It was all over.

"The time has come to hear your opinions," Valentin Sergeyevich announced.

"Deprive!"

"Deprive!"

"Trample!"

"Three to deprive," counted Danilov, "four ... five . ' Other voices were not so decisive. Some even suggested lesser punishments: "Turn him into a madman and send him to an empty planet!" ("Could that be New Margarit?" thought Danilov.) "Deprive him of existence but do not kill him, turn him into a popular tune and send him out into the world!" ("Oh, no!" Danilov shuddered. "They could turn me into a jingle! I'd be better off deprived and trampled. Let them do it right now...")

"That's enough," Valentin Sergeyevich said. "The majority is for depriving."

"Confirmation must be sought," an unfamiliar baritone said.

"I know," Valentin Sergeyevich said huffily.

Now Danilov saw Valentin Sergeyevich in front of and below him. That was where, in the guise of a shy clerk, he had swept up the garbage. Valentin Sergeyevich took careful steps, as if he were afraid. Then something happened in front of him. A crevice opened. Noise issued from it. "That's where they'll throw me," Danilov thought.

"Demon on contract Danilov," Valentin Sergeyevich intoned, "has been sentenced: to be deprived of his existence and all memory of him trampled."

He was silent. "They'll push me in and incinerate me right now," thought Danilov. But a quiet, hoarse voice said:

"Hold off."

The crack disappeared. Valentin Sergeyevich stood confused in the silence. Finally he lifted his head and said, "Recess."

Everyone moved off -- Danilov could feel it.

Then his chair flew up and landed in a room decorated with Oriental rugs. The room was divided into two unequal areas by a wooden rail. The larger part of the room held the judges, who walked around or lounged on couches. Low coffee tables with drinks, snacks, and tobacco pipes circulated among them. The tables also held herbs for headaches or nervous tension. Danilov's chair was on the other side of the barrier.

Danilov could still see the crack and hear the noise coming from it. An instant ago, in the courtroom, he had been so numb, he would have gladly gone to his death. But now his fear was again tangible: They won't hold off for long! Maybe for a half hour so that the judges can relax and have a drink? Danilov's hands were shaking.

"Danilov, come over here, please," he heard.

A middle-aged demon in a black leather jacket and a starched cotton shirt and tie stood at the barrier.

The straps fell away. Danilov got up and went over to the barrier.

"I thought that fragment of your music interesting. The one that rather unbalanced demon had doubts about."

"He had doubts about everything," Danilov said.

"Yes," the demon said and nodded. "He's stupid."

Danilov looked at him and tried to remember if he had heard his voice during the discussion. He remembered:

"Confirmation must be sought." Yes, the same calm baritone. Yet, by the rules, he should not have reminded Valentin Sergeyevich about anything. But he did. As if he had to.

The demon said, "Excuse me, I haven't introduced myself. My name is Maliban. Another thing: Do those futecons -- or confutes -- meet in Nastasyinsky Alley?"

"Yes. In Nastasyinsky ... Why?"

"Just asking," Maliban said. And then added in a whisper: "I think that you made a mistake in not paying an entrance fee at Nastasyinsky Alley..."

Maliban walked over to the soft couches. Danilov stood bewildered at the barrier, and then, without hurrying, he headed for a table and sat down. Just a short time ago, at the beginning of the recess, he had felt like a wretched slave lying on the blood-stained sand of a Roman arena, the starved lions roaring behind the bars, soon to be lifted. But now Maliban's mention of music had fortified Danilov. Once again he remembered that he was a musician, and therefore considered himself the equal of anyone.

New Margarit had been sipping a cool drink with important-looking demons whom Danilov did not know. Now New Margarit left his group and came over. He was animated and amiable. He smiled. He seemed to be visiting from the eighteenth century, with his black judge's robes and an ash-colored powdered wig of the British type.

"You defended yourself well," New Margarit said.

"Won't you get into trouble by talking to me?"

"If you're afraid of everything ... and then, your crimes and downfall... are yours, not mine."

"Who said to hold off?"

"Are you serious, or are you joking?"

"Just joking," Danilov said quickly. "Who are you here? Expert, investigator, lawyer?"

"A little bit of everything."

"And music specialist?"

"To a certain degree ... I've developed many interests. But in music you are naturally stronger than I. And not only than I." There was a glint in New Margarit's eyes.

"You're dressed unusually."

"It's a masquerade, of course. But sometimes it's fun to wear a disguise. To play just like you" -- New Margarit lowered his voice -- "The way you were behaving ... just keep it up. Don't abandon your role."

"What role?"

"That role ... another thing. Maliban came over to you. Understand where his interests lie. And where yours are."

"When the sentence was discussed, were you silent?"

"No. I said: 'Deprive!' "

"Then why are you giving me advice?"

"In any case, it's not for old times' sake."

A gong was struck. It probably wasn't a gong, but that's what it sounded like to Danilov. Danilov didn't make a single movement, but the straps pressed him once more against the chair back. Once again Danilov was in the courtroom. But it had been transformed. It no longer resembled the lyceum auditorium; now it had a stage, an orchestra pit, a small parterre of the sort used in theaters of the nineteenth century, with armchairs upholstered in pink silk. The room was half dark, but it resembled the earthly darkness to which he was accustomed. Gone was the electric blue light that had made Danilov so nervous.

The chair with Danilov was on the stage, where the prompter's box should have been. It made no revolutions, flights, or carousels as before. Below, in the parterre, sat the judges. Like an artistic council. Or a competition committee. They were whispering about something.

"The delay is over," thought Danilov. "But why did New Margarit come over to me? To show that he was a liberal and independent? To show that he could do it? Especially since he had called for deprivation. Maybe that call to hold off had changed something. Could it be the big bull? There was a glint in New Margarit's eyes ... and he advised me not to come out of my role..." Danilov had not invented a role for himself, it had happened on its own.

"The determination of the fate of demon on contract Danilov continues," announced Valentin Sergeyevich.

"Is there anything Danilov wishes to say?" the Deputy of Rules and Regulations said. "Does he wish to repent?"

"I have nothing to repent," Danilov said harshly.

"Oh, no?" New Margarit asked.

"No," Danilov said less decisively.

"You're very frivolous," the Deputy noted.

"That's it, frivolous," New Margarit said, pleased to have the right word and that he was not the first to utter it. "Danilov is extremely frivolous. His life-style and work in the past few years and his present conduct confirm that we are dealing with an individual who began giving in to human temptations, who began living like a human, not out of any serious consideration but frivolously, perhaps out of spiritual showing off?"

"Are we supposed to be pleased by his frivolity?" the deputy demanded. "What use is Danilov to us on Earth now? Here is a valid evaluation of his usefulness."

Copies of the report were passed out to the commission, and pages began turning. A brochure appeared before Dan-ilov's eyes. Its pages turned by themselves, permitting Danilov to familiarize himself with the document.

"Much of this is interpreted incorrecdy," Danilov said. "The indices are skewed. A commission should be formed."

Valentin Sergeyevich spread his hands in dismay.

"And there's that old lady again," Danilov said, "whom I helped across the street. How long will I be persecuted for that old lady?"

If he had been holding a copy of the report in his hand, he would have flung it down in indignation.

"There is no need for any commissions," Valentin Sergeyevich said. "There's been enough of them. As for this comedy routine Danilov is pulling, it does not do any credit to his intelligence."

"He has no intelligence!" interceded New Margarit. "He has always been a ne'er-do-well. As a child and at the lyceum. And I want to stress yet again that what happened with him is neither rebellion nor treason, but simply frivolity and irresponsibility."

"That changes the situation?" Valentin Sergeyevich asked.

"It does," New Margarit said.

"You were for depriving."

"Yes, was!" New Margarit said. "Now I think it worthwhile to come to another decision. Danilov must be punished, but he should not be rejected."

"What do we need with Danilov?" the deputy asked, fuming.

"Allow me," Maliban said. "I did not know Danilov before, so I understand him a bit differently than our colleague" -- with a nod to New Margarit -- "but that is not important. Even Danilov, as he is now, could be useful to us. Yesterday he was of no use, and now he is of no use, but tomorrow he suddenly could be. Even if Danilov is overly interested in earthly things."

"We should keep a demon on contract because he could be of use?" Valentin Sergeyevich's deputy asked with a frown.

"Because of that 'could be'!" Maliban said. "Your irreproachable scientists and workers spend every day in enthusiastic toil. But this 'could be' may repay us much more generously."

"Why such a condescending tone for irreproachable scientists and workers?" Valentin Sergeyevich asked. "And in which field of activity will your 'could be' flourish?"

"Like so," Maliban said.

Right above the orchestra pit appeared a vision of Rostov-tsov's apartment in Nastasyinsky Alley. There, in the hallway, was a crowd of well-dressed people, ready to get a number in the line for the futecons. Maliban told them about the futecons, related their attitude toward Danilov, and the two phone calls from the secretary.

"Due to his frivolous nature, Danilov may not have understood the attractions of this line," Maliban said. "But we cannot allow ourselves a similar frivolity."

He sat down.

"There's something to that!" New Margarit said. "Yes, there is!"

"Yes," Valentin Sergeyevich said. "This is a direction with great potential."

Everyone started talking at once, agreeing with Valentin Sergeyevich. It appeared that the members of the hearing had hoped for such a turn of events and now felt a great relief that it had come.

"But what about Danilov himself?" the deputy asked. "How does he feel about all this?"

"Well," Danilov said, "if the secretary of the futecons calls me, I'll agree to meet with him."

"In my opinion," Maliban said, "there is no point in continuing this conversation. Business details can be discussed with Danilov later."

"Is this it?" Danilov couldn't believe it. "Was it really the big bull who said to hold off?"

"Now the punitive measures," Valentin Sergeyevich said.

"Yes, the punitive measures," his colleagues agreed.

"I suggest the chandelier," the deputy said.

"The chandelier! The chandelier! The chandelier!" they all chimed in.

Maliban supported the chandelier. And New Margarit agreed to it, too.

A chandelier appeared above Danilov. It resembled the chandelier from Danilov's theater, but there was something different about it, too. The chandelier was gorgeous, about seven meters high, with three rings of gilt bronze attached to the central bronze bar -- the lowest rather narrow, the other two significantly wider. Bronze hooks and brackets held the bulb fixtures and candleholders. All this was the core of a crystal garden. Crystal bouquets, nosegays, and garlands blossomed and sparkled. You looked at them and forgot your cares... The chandelier began descending quickly. It hung on a metal chain. The chain creaked and trembled. Danilov felt that the chandelier might break off at any second. It did break off and fell, swallowing Danilov up. He lost his hearing. Then everything started to go out in him...

When Danilov came to, he realized that he was still in the chair and the chandelier swayed high above him.

"So, the chandelier," said Valentin Sergeyevich. "It will be suspended over Danilov from now on, and if he gives it any reason to fall, nothing will stop it."

"I suggest an addition to the chandelier," New Margarit announced. "A sensitivity to frequencies."

"What does that mean?" the unstable demon demanded.

New Margarit began explaining. "There is a theory by Birfel and Tarnatsev. According to it man is part of the oscillating system of the Earth. He lives in it and most often does not feel it. But an increase in the frequency of the oscillation makes him feel uncomfortable. If the frequency reaches ten hertz (here New Margarit apologized for turning to Earth units), he gets quite sick.

"Especially sensitive to these frequencies are people with a well-developed sense of rhythm. Musicians above all. One Tashkent boy, a piano student, was sick for several hours before the famous earthquake there. Danilov previously was free of any sensitivity to this oscillation. But now he has become too daring in his music. So let his sensitivity heighten. As he begins playing better, reaching new heights in music, his sensitivity will grow even more acute. Not only earthquakes and tremblings will be apparent to Danilov, he will also feel the suffering of people near and far, surges of other people's pain will reach him. He will end up with a heavy burden on his shoulders. Let him bear this in mind and decide whether he would be more daring in music."

"That's convincing," said Valentin Sergeyevich.

Everyone supported New Margarit. Only Maliban shrugged, "The hearing is concluded," announced Valentin Sergey evich.

The straps released Danilov.

43

In the morning Danilov bumped into New Margarit.

Danilov was in a rush to complete the paperwork before his departure and was not disposed to a long conversation.

"Well, got out of it, eh?" said New Margarit with a laugh.

New Margarit checked himself. Danilov sensed that New Margarit wanted to find out how Danilov had arranged for his unprecedented patronage -- yes, patronage was the word, even though one could only make suppositions in this regard. But obviously that theme was taboo even for New Margarit. "Really," thought Danilov, "did he spare me just because I had scratched his back with that bone? Why? ... I didn't do it for any profit to myself..."

"You're clever, Danilov, clever." That's all New Margarit could say.

"Listen," Danilov said with a frown, "what was the fiery sign in the Well of Anticipation? About the caviar? I didn't get it."

"It had nothing to do with you. It came from a different program. Mechanical error."

"What about the leather apron?"

"It remained longer than it was supposed to. Laziness on the part of one of the operators. He's been punished."

"I hope not too severely?"

"Not too."

"And I also wanted to ask you -- "

"About the house spirit and Sinezud," New Margarit said. "You don't have the power to bring them back. And no one will help you."

"Well, then it's my fault."

"That's for you to decide," New Margarit said.

"Why did they keep me waiting so long?"

"What do you mean, 'So long'! You weren't the only one summoned. We had enough work as it was. But you were great. I liked you. And it will be a pleasure keeping track of your life from now on. No, not officially, don't worry, simply for my own pleasure. As a curious observer, incapable of acting. I'm very interested in what twists and turns your fate holds. And what certain individuals, for whom you are a splinter in the eye, will do to you."

And they parted.

Danilov suddenly recalled the railroad food, and wanted to call New Margarit back to find out what they had been trying to achieve, feeding him that way. But Danilov did not call out.

They understood who he was, yet they had spared his essence. For that he was to follow their instructions, and use his special qualities that made them hope for success. "Well, we'll see about that," Danilov said to himself. For the moment he was free. Because of his prospects with the futecons. He saw nothing shameful in agreeing to meet with the secretary of the futecons. The futecons and the smug people from the line were repugnant to Danilov. He did not like careerists, social climbers, and go-getters, so why not have a little fun with those people? It was time to go to Maliban for orders.

Danilov learned that previously Maliban had worked in the Chancery of Illusions. Now he had his own lab. Danilov was not told its name, and its functions were kept secret.

Danilov entered Maliban's office, and they greeted each other. The office was Middle European, austere and businesslike.

"Actually, there's no need for instructions," Maliban said. "Accept the futecons' offer and behave as circumstances warrant. Just live, that's all."

"What do you -- "

"What do we need with the futecons? I don't know for sure myself yet. But I have a feeling ... something will come of it... You see, for people like Valentin Sergeyevich and even more so for his deputy, everything is clear. They've accepted the traditional doctrine, and whethier tiiey have doubts about it or not doesn't matter. They carry on. I have doubts. I'm not sure of anything completely. My doubts and my laboratory are not only permitted, but are also recognized as being necessary. We are running tests -- well, tests isn't the right word -- anyway, I understand you. You're grimacing inside. You think that you're being sent to spy on the futecons. No, we'd take someone else for surveillance."

"You probably already have," thought Danilov.

"Use your imagination, direct the futecons, give them goals, help, and obstacles; for them you're an extraterrestrial or something. In critical situations they will turn to you. Don't expect any prompting from us. And don't rush. Everything must take its natural course. You don't have to show yourself for ten years if the futecons don't need you."

"I probably am more than just your lab assistant. I'm also the subject of your research, aren't I?"

Maliban was silent. Then he spoke in serious tones:

"Yes. But you should not see anything insulting in that. You are a gifted, creative character, and therefore of interest to us. I have a sense of who you are. You are not as simple as you like to think. Perhaps you are a new type, a response to the present state of the universe. Perhaps not. We are prepared for changes, for our and your pleasure. Why not consider your fate and your character edifying and worth studying? ... As for being a lab assistant, you did not understand me properly. A lab assistant is a flunky. We will not be sending you any tasks. I repeat: Live, and that's it. And don't show off among the futecons, don't invent any artificial twists of your own. Just react to situations that touch upon you, with all the sincerity of your real personality. Improvise, the way you do in your music."

Danilov tensed. Had he understood?

"No, I didn't understand your compositions," Maliban noted. "I simply listened to them... Incidentally, the hostility certain individuals have for you is precisely because of your daring in music. They feel you place yourself higher there than -- "

"Higher than what?"

"That was just an aside," Maliban said. "So forget it... If we need to, we'll call you. But that won't be for a long time... Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Pay attention to Rostovtsov."

"Rostovtsov?"

"No, he has nothing to do with us. But he's worth your attention."

"All right."

"That's all," Maliban said. "Go back to Ostankino."

He smiled for the first time during their talk. He was back in his black leather jacket and freshly laundered cotton shirt. "Forget about me. But don't forget the chandelier. I don't like reminding you about it. But what can you do? You really are frivolous. I'm not against frivolity; I can take you as you are. But I'm not the one who will be holding the chandelier over your head. Valentin Sergeyevich may not take our plans into account."

Maliban's eyes were cold and stern.

Later Danilov recalled Maliban's eyes more than once. "What can you expect from him," thought Danilov, "if his whole life is about doubt and experimentation?" Danilov considered experiments on living and rational, even relatively rational, creatures to be immoral, but Maliban found them delectable.

A multitude of acquaintances who had avoided Danilov now wanted to see him. Some even fawned over him. Danilov avoided such meetings and conversations. He saw Ugrael once, wearing his white Bedouin burnoose again. He looked disappointed and even seemed to bear Danilov a grudge. His lips traveled up to his ears, and he emitted sounds through his nostrils. "I'm off," Ugrael said, "back to the Arabian deserts!" He waved. "Oh, well," Danilov said. "At least it's warm there."

When Danilov finally was alone under the cuckoo clock, he smelled the delicate scent of anemones and sensed a signal. Danilov became excited as Himeko stepped out from behind the wardrobe. Slender, sad, in a green kimono, she stood before Danilov, her finger at her lips. Danilov nodded, promising to be quiet. Himeko dropped her hand. She smiled sadly at Danilov. Then she bowed, looked up with black, moist eyes, gazed at him for a long time, as if to drink him in, then nodded silently, and melted away.

Danilov wanted to rush after Himeko. But where? And for what? He sat down on the bed. He almost wept. Himeko had said good-bye to him. No one had forced her to do that, Danilov thought; she herself had decided that it was over. And she did not ask for his consent.

Even though Danilov consoled himself with the hope that Fate would bring them together again sometime, he was depressed. He would have mourned for a long time, had he not been called in to see Valentin Sergeyevich.

The conversation turned out to be unexpectedly brief. Valentin Sergeyevich praised Danilov's chess playing and reminded him how he had trembled at the meeting of house spirits on Argunovskaya Street when he saw Danilov's bishop. "But that wasn't you," Danilov said. "It was and it wasn't," replied Valentin Sergeyevich. This Valentin Sergeyevich said that he had not changed his opinion of Danilov, even though he had given it some thought. Then he added: "Do you wish to ask us about anything?" The expression in Valentin Ser-geyevich's eyes made Danilov think that this was the reason he had been called in. "No," Danilov said, "I have nothing to ask ..." "Well, then," Valentin Sergeyevich said with a nod, "it's up to you. Go." Danilov was excused.

In the Fourth Layer he saw Anastasiya.

"There you are!" Anastasiya said and took Danilov's hand.

The place was transformed. Danilov and Anastasiya were in a shady nook of a neglected garden, overgrown with reddish elders (which Danilov liked). Here and there in the elder thickets above the nettles and burdock grew faded jasmine. A white bench stood beneath the elders, and they sat down.

"Look at you!" Danilov said.

"How do I look?" Anastasiya asked delightedly.

"A real little cossack!"

Anastasiya wore a white silk blouse with flowing sleeves edged in gold braid. There was a sash around her waist, and her tight white velvet trousers were tucked into red boots.

"Why are you staring at me so shamelessly?"

Anastasiya was not flirting. Instead she was tender and meek. In the past she was accompanied by flashing lights, sonic booms, and geologic and maritime disturbances; every-thing had sizzled and moaned around Anastasiya -- she was passion itself. Now even the elder leaves did not rusde nor did overripe berries fall. Anastasiya was being modest. What was the matter?

"Don't be angry with me," Danilov said. "You know my situation."

"I'm not angry," Anastasiya said and glanced at him. "I have enough boyfriends. I'm satisfied with them. And I'm not in love with you."

Danilov did not know what to say to that. Then he remembered.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For healing me. For sewing up the hole with silk thread.

For everything. You were taking a risk then."

"A risk?" Anastasiya waved him off. "So what?"

She turned to him abruptly, pulled him closer, and said: "Danilov! Stay here! I beg you! What do you need Earth for?"

"What's the matter, Anastasiya? You yourself have Smolensk blood."

"No," Anastasiya said. "I'm a stranger on Earth. I'm better here. It's better here for all of us. Stay! I can do anything now. You'll be one of us here, with all your rights. I'll arrange it. Just stay. For my sake!"

There was entreaty and love in her eyes.

"I can't," Danilov said. "Forgive me."

"Then go!" she shouted. "Go! Right now! Good-bye! It's over! And don't look back!"

Danilov slunk away. He felt terrible. He did not turn around. Anastasiya might be weeping on the white bench. But had he turned around, he wouldn't have seen anything. Not the bench, not the elders, not Anastasiya.

Dear Anastasiya ... But what could he have said?

He had to go, as Valentin Sergeyevich ordered. Danilov went to the wardrobe, where his winter clothes were hung.

44

Danilov pulled the door toward him. It would not give. "I took the nails out," Danilov thought. He examined the door. The nails were in place. "How could that be?" He had to fuss with the nails.

The door opened and Danilov was under the arch of house 67. The clock on the corner of Bolnichney Alley showed twenty minutes after twelve. "So that's why the nails are in the door. I haven't taken them out yet."

To avoid any other problems, Danilov switched his bracelet to human state. People passed, people he had not seen before heading into the Nine Layers.

"Should I call Natasha from here or from Ostankino?" thought Danilov. He would have called right away, but he didn't have any coins in his pocket. Not a single one.

But here was "the" streetcar. Danilov put his fare in the box, turned the handle, and didn't get a ticket again. Once again, as if seeking support, he turned toward the drunk and said something about the ticket. But the drunkard did not respond. (The last time he had muttered "Ah!" and had waved his hand.) "Why bother him?" Danilov scolded himself.

At home he regretted that he had left his viola at the theater. He was dying to play. He probably wouldn't feel that he was really back until he held the viola and bow in his hands.

The apartment wasn't hot and it didn't smell. The porcelain saucer that had held the lacquered summons with the crimson signs was back in the hutch.

"Should I call Natasha, or is it too late?" He dialed her number. Natasha picked up the phone immediately.

"Everything's all right," Danilov said. "I'll see you tomorrow. Forgive me if I caused you any anxiety. Go to sleep."

And he hung up.

The phone rang immediately. "No, Natasha, not now," Danilov almost said, but he heard the voice of co-op shareholder Podkovyrov.

"Vladimir Alekseyevich, excuse me," Podkovyrov spoke urgently. "I know it's late, but I was walking my dog and saw your light, and I decided to call. I respect your sense of humor, and I'd like to try this out on you. Are you listening?"

"I'm listening," Danilov said.

"Here. A brief thought: If your spirits drop, remember which side they're buttered on. Hm? How about it? Is it funny?"

"It's funny," Danilov said and sighed like a doomed man.

"What do you think? Should I explain about the butter?"

"No."

He wanted to unplug the phone, but then he thought, what if Natasha calls? However, no one called.

He fell asleep quickly, even though he had thought he wouldn't be able to fall asleep. When he woke up he felt that something was about to happen to him or had just happened. He lifted his head and saw, on one of the chairs, his Albani viola.

45

Danilov did not take the Albani to the theater, because he foresaw the questions and wisecracks in the pit.

He took the streetcar to the theater. He thought that he should let the police and the insurance company know about the recovery of the Albani. The insurance company was easy. But the police probably would demand an explanation concerning how the lost instrument had reappeared. Or why had he bothered them when he had stuck it in some obscure closet and forgotten all about it. "They dropped it off!" Danilov practiced telling the police. And that was no lie.

The orchestra played in the rehearsal hall. During the breaks, Danilov did not relax. He and Varentsova looked over plans for special concerts. Danilov had to play with a sextet at a brake factory and in a printing shop.

Danilov was also the business manager of the sextet. He asked which vocalists would be with them, and Varentsova told him the baritone Silchenko and the mezzo Paletskaya. But Paletskaya had to be talked into it. Danilov rushed off to find Paletskaya.

Then Danilov hurried over to the string workshop. An-drianov had long ago promised Danilov an article for Tuning Fork, their newsletter, and then had forgotten about it. "The issue has to be out soon," Danilov began, but Andrianov stopped him and pulled two sheets of paper from his pocket. "If I can just get two other articles out of Sobakin and Pan-yushkin, I'll have an issue." When he got back to the pit, the violist Gorokhov, always in the know, whispered: "They say that Mosolov is finally going to put on Oedipus Rex. They don't just say it, it's for sure." Gorokhov knew that the news would please Danilov. Danilov had long felt that they didn't play enough Stravinsky in their theater. "Will we be able to handle it?" Danilov suddenly doubted.

And then he thought: "If only we could do The Flaming Angel as well..." Danilov held the Prokofiev work in awe and had been waiting years for them to decide to do it. "We should have an article about The Flaming Angel in the newsletter!" The idea struck Danilov. "But who'll write it? Pan-yushkin? Or should I do it myself?"

Danilov put Andrianov's article next to his sheet music. When he wasn't playing, Danilov turned Andrianov's pages over and read die tide: "The Great Chandelier." Andrianov loved the theater's history and spent a lot of time in the archives. In his article he was merely sharing his information on the chandelier in the main hall. But, even as he played now, Danilov sneaked looks at Andrianov's pages. He read about the artisans of bronze and crystal, read about the brackets, hooks, and lamp fixtures. "The great chandelier consists of over thirteen thousand parts," Andrianov concluded.

That evening, when they played Futile Precautions, Danilov could not keep himself from looking up at the chandelier. It was a lot better than the ballerinas' legs. Previously Danilov had liked the chandelier -- he couldn't have imagined the theater without it. But now he felt something close to revulsion toward it. Danilov ducked his head from time to time, imagining the threat of the thirteen thousand bronze, crystal, iron, glass, and other parts falling on him. The fall would probably be spectacular, the play of facets and reflections gorgeous -- but it all depended on your vantage point.

"What's the matter with me? I'm shaking! There's no reason yet..." That's what Danilov told himself, but he fled the pit during the intermissions.

On the way home, he calmed down. The chandelier was back in the theater, even though it floated over him as a shadow with dimmed lights all the way to Ostankino. Natasha was at home in Ostankino. She opened the door, let him in, and hugged him. Danilov said nothing. He simply caressed her hair. He was grateful to Natasha. He loved her and knew that she would never refuse to shoulder any burden. She had joined her life with his, and she could handle anything. "What will be, will be," thought Danilov. "And for now, she is with me.

"Well, you're back," Natasha said. "Take off your coat, wash your hands, and let's go into the kitchen..."

In the morning when Natasha left for work, Danilov phoned Klavdia Petrovna.

"What do you want from me?" Klavdia asked.

"From you?" Danilov was stunned. Then he realized that truly, this time, he did want something from her. "I wouldn't have ... but you yourself gave me advice ... about the fu-tecons ..."

"You want me to set up a meeting for you?"

"I'd be very grateful..."

"What do you need with the futecons?"

"Well, if only to get the books I need. And then you said I could be of use to you there."

Klavdia was silent. She was probably thinking.

"Well, all right," she said. "I'll try to set up a meeting with Rostovtsov for you. But bear in mind that it's hard to get in the line."

"I understand," Danilov said with a sigh.

When he hung up, he practically slammed his fist on the receiver. Why had he called? What did he need with Klavdia? Why was he worrying? Had the chandelier scared him that much? Wasn't the secretary of the futecons planning to call in two days -- that is, tomorrow? And who cared about the secretary? All Danilov had to do was use his bracelet and settle the matter in half a second. And instead -- he couldn't believe it -- he had made this pathetic entreaty to Klavdia! Why? He was about to call her back and tell her he had changed his mind, but she called first.

"It's settled!" Klavdia announced. "You can kiss my feet!

You'll be in my debt to the end of your days."

"All right, to the end of my days," Danilov agreed.

"I've convinced Rostovtsov to meet with you today."

"I have a rough day today."

"You do! Big deal! I took pity on you as it is. You have a break between four and six. At four-fifteen be at the ice cream parlor on Gorky Street."

"All right," Danilov said.

"Danilov, another thing ... this is very important to me. Something's been happening to Rostovtsov in the past few days. He's involved in something. I'm asking you to ... sort of casually ... find out what's up. Maybe he'll open up to you. He's been going to the racetrack for some reason..."

"So," thought Danilov later, "she's setting me up with Rostovtsov for an ulterior motive. He must be getting out of hand and she needs information on him..."

A little after four, Danilov was on the corner of the Art Theater passageway. He stood there for a minute or two and saw Rostovtsov on horseback. Rostovtsov was riding down the sidewalk toward him. He looked rather ordinary today, no parrot on his shoulder, no staff, no hookah. The other people on Gorky Street were not at all surprised by the horse and rider, except for, perhaps, Rostovstov's unseasonal dress -- jockey silks. Rostovtsov jumped down from the horse, tied it to a linden, and strode toward Danilov. They said hello and shook hands. Danilov said that in all probability Rostovtsov knew with whom he was dealing even if they had never been formally introduced. Yes, Rostovtsov agreed, that was so. They went into the ice cream parlor, went up to the balcony, and ordered sundaes and a bottle of Tvishi wine.

"From what Klavdia Petrovna told me, I understand that you, Vladimir Alekseyevich, wish to get into the line for the futecons?"

"Yes," Danilov said.

"Excuse me, but why do you want to?"

"I ..." Danilov muttered and thought: "Is this a preliminary examination or something? What if he wants the entrance fee right now? I don't even know if I'll be able to pay for the ice cream..." Then he said, "I don't think Klavdia quite understood me. It's not that I'm desperate to get in. If helping me is in any way a burden to you, let's forget the whole thing right now..."

"No," Rostovtsov said sternly. "It's not a burden. But why do you need to?"

"Books! I don't have time to keep track of what's in the bookstores nor the money to pay black-market prices."

"You need books?"

"Yes," Danilov said. "I collect them. And read them ... on music, art, history. The Louvre just came out in a large format, but how do I get it? I can't live without books."

Danilov wasn't lying here.

"I understand you," Rostovtsov said. "People are investing in books. Like carpets and precious stones ... I'm a bibliophile myself. I'm trying to collect everything on horses now...."

"You have a marvelous horse there," Danilov interjected flatteringly.

"That's just an old mare," Rostovtsov said negligently. "I took whichever horse was available. But I have a truly fine stallion."

Once he mentioned the stallion, Rostovtsov was a different man.

"You enjoy horseback riding?" Danilov asked.

"Yes, I adore it."

And Rostovtsov, without any prompting from Danilov, and without even caring whether Danilov was interested, began telling about his obsession: He started because it was fashionable, and went riding with the club at Sokolniki Park. ("Like Muravlyov," noted Danilov.) At first he fell off his horses, broke his ribs, spent two months in the hospital. But he didn't give up. And now he was riding through the paths of Sokolniki Park with the others. Really riding! It fired his passion. His nostrils flared! His ancestors, maybe Scythians, came alive in him. He felt like a real man on horseback. His love of beauty was satisfied -- is there a more beautiful animal than a horse, especially one in motion? He went to the racetrack, he read tons of books and articles in obscure journals.

"I'm too heavy and too tall to be a jockey, you can see that, but I'd like to ride in the trotters -- weight isn't as important there. They use little carts."

"You're dreaming about trotting now?"

"I'm not dreaming, I'm training for it... What I'm dreaming about... I dream of being one with the horse, mastering it without bridle or bit, to achieve that freedom and perfection! ... Anyone can do it with a bridle and bit. But once upon a time the Numidians and Greeks merely held a stick in their hands and the horses obeyed. Why shouldn't I be able to do that?"

"You probably will," Danilov said politely.

Rostovtsov was lost in his dreams of unsaddled stallions. Then he came to his senses. He gave Danilov a meek, guilty smile. Danilov liked him this way, simple and shy. But Rostovtsov quickly turned serious again.

"Excuse me... So why do you need the futecons?"

"What? I just told you..."

"I understand about the books," Rostovtsov said. "But if you could get the books without the futecons? I know a few things about you. I like you. Why get involved with their baloney?"

"What baloney?"

"The line for the futecons! The confutes!"

"I don't understand you."

"But you should understand them. It's a mirage."

"Meaning what?"

"Mirage, vision, phony, fake! I really do like you and I feel obligated to open your eyes. The futecons are my invention."

Danilov tensed up. He did not want the whole futecon thing to be a mirage.

"I'm like that," Rostovtsov said. "I'm a mischief-maker. I like practical jokes. Many have suffered because of them. I've suffered. But, alas, I'm incorrigible... and it's the same with the futecons. About three years ago I was with some people. I met the sociologist Oblakov and two economists. They were the big men at the party; they spoke loudly and well. So, just to keep up my end of the social chitchat, I told them about an initiative group concerned about the future. I was just fooling around, using unfamiliar terminology, parodying it, but they didn't see the joke at all. On the contrary, they were all ears. 'We should try it,' they said.

"I should have dropped the 'idea' right there, but my juvenile side came into play. And the line formed. And now it operates on its own steam, quite apart from me."

"So you turned to horses?"

"Yes," Rostovtsov said with a nod. "As soon as the line took on a life of its own, I lost interest in it."

"But the time will come when you'll ride on a stallion with-out saddle and bridle, and then you'll get sick of horses."

"That's true," Rostovtsov agreed readily.

"Have you been like this all your life?"

"Yes. It's my nature."

"You work somewhere, don't you?"

"I do."

"You have a sign on your door: Graduate of Two Institutes (One of them a University)."

"Yes. The Institute of Physical Culture. I majored in swimming, but I don't swim or teach swimming anymore. I just take baths. Then the university. I majored in mechanical mathematics."

"Is your work connected with space?"

"Yes." Rostovstov made flying motions with his fingers. But now I just play jokes and ride mares."

"And are you having fun, at least?"

"It's not a question of fun ... and there's something else. The more discoveries in science, at least in the area where I worked, the more mysteries. The thought occurs to you: 'Is someone playing a joke on us? Is my life just somebody else's joke?' That's why / play jokes, to comfort myself, to seek some balance."

"You've just been reading too much foreign science fiction," Danilov said.

"Maybe," Rostovtsov said musingly.

"But what's going on? You said it was a mirage. But it's not. There is a line. And I'll get the books, I hope. And the others will obtain even more valuable items! I have no doubt about it. New connections, new influences, new information, new jobs, and new things. And all thanks to you! In some degree. And you wash your hands of it and go riding."

"What are you getting at?" Rostovtsov looked up.

"Well..." Danilov looked embarrassed. But he continued, "That you really are irresponsible. You yourself gave those wheeler-dealers the means for success, and then you run off. No, that won't do. They'll succeed thanks to you ... Is that right? ..."

"I think you've convinced me..."

"Good," thought Danilov. "But he won't be able to get away from the futecons anyway. Klavdia won't let him out of her clutches."

"Why were you following me around?" Danilov asked.

"I thought you were one of them, too. I watched you for a long time. I wanted to come up with something special for you. But then I started to like you..."

Danilov was getting tipsy. He was happy and began feeling warmly toward Rostovtsov. He noticed that the wine had affected Rostovtsov, too. "Are you all right? You're driving, after all," Danilov said.

"No harm done," Rostovtsov replied.

The horse neighed and Rostovtsov said it was time to go. Danilov agreed. "Don't catch cold!" Danilov said worriedly. Rostovtsov reassured him -- at one time he had belonged to the polar bear swim club. Danilov walked him to his horse, shook his hand, and then watched Rostovtsov ride down Gorky Street toward the Belorussian Train Station.

That evening at eleven, Klavdia called Danilov.

"Well!" she demanded, "why does he go to the racetrack?"

"He likes horses. He doesn't gamble."

"I know he doesn't gamble. I've been to the track."

"Then you know better than I do."

"I always have to count on myself, do everything myself!"

Natasha was in the room, and during his conversation with Klavdia, Danilov could feel that she was tense. They had not discussed Klavdia at all. He wanted to go over to Natasha and kiss her and say something to her, but the phone rang again.

"Please forgive me for calling so late," said the futecon secretary. "I couldn't reach you during the day. And we had agreed ..."

"All right," Danilov said dryly. "I'll accept your offer. However, I would like you to know that my agreeing is not the result of your (he almost said "threats," but Natasha was there)... conditions ... but my own self-interest..."

"I'm very pleased," the secretary said. "I'll report to Oblakov immediately. We would like you to meet with him."

Danilov hung up. He thought: "Go ahead and report. You'll be sorry later." He expected Natasha to ask what was going on, but she didn't.

46

Danilov met with Oblakov and the creme of the futecons at Nastasyinsky Alley. He was reserved and told them that they were mistaken in their fantastic suppositions about him, but that was their business. Yet they interested him, and that was why he had agreed to work with them, even though he did not quite understand of what use he would be. As a musical consultant, perhaps?

The futecons behaved tactfully as well. They let him understand that they knew how they would be able to use him. They were checking him out. And it was apparent that they were serious people.

"So," Danilov said in parting, "I do not seek any special favors. Well, except for some books ... but as for reviews, good tours, and so on, I don't need that. I mean, do not interfere with me, as you have in recent weeks, but do not promote me, either."

"All right," said Oblakov.

That's what he said, but the violist Turukanov came up to Danilov a few days later and hinted at something known only to the two of them. He spoke respectfully, even fawningly. One of the conductors, whom Klavdia had seen in line at Nastasyinsky Alley, greeted Danilov more cordially than before. And the critic Zabyvalov sent Danilov a letter, apologizing for not mentioning him by name in the review. He said that he liked his viola playing very much, that it was superior to Pereslegin's music, but that he wouldn't mind hearing the symphony once more, to reevaluate it more objectively. Klavdia waited for him at the stage door and heaped him with imprecations.

"Why did they ask you in?"

"They need a musical consultant. In case they have to read sheet music or evaluate songs."

"There are thousands of musicians and hundreds of laureates, but they asked you?"

"What are you attacking me for?"

"Don't wiggle out of an answer!"

"I can't explain anything to you," Danilov said sternly. "I'm not at liberty to do that."

That reassured Klavdia Petrovna immediately. Now she regarded Danilov with quiet interest. There was joy in her eyes.

"I hope you won't forget who I am to you."

"I think you're nursing a false hope. You have a better chance in the line than I do."

"Sure, sure," Klavdia said quickly, as if he were a mental patient suffering from delusions and she did not want to upset him.

But then she burst out: "So you turn out to be a mystery man. You've been pretending to be a wimp..."

"Excuse me, Klavdia," Danilov said. "I have a performance. You could have solved my mysteries long ago."

"Maybe I was blind." The sad words followed him down the corridor.

Danilov stopped in his tracks. He looked back at Klavdia, but her face was in the shadows.

47

The spring and summer months were very busy. They were preparing for the Italian trip at the theater, and there were many rush additions. Danilov also played in the theater's sextet -- for their concert series and with the soloists for the television program, Blue Light. There was a rumor that the sextet would be invited to Japan.

Pereslegin called: Chudetsky's orchestra was supposed to play at the Palace of Culture of Car Workers in early October. The program was Stravinsky's Song of the Nightingale and Pereslegin's symphony. That meant they needed Danilov.

Danilov looked forward to the concert with impatience and fear.

All of Danilov's acquaintances came. In the lobby Danilov saw a few people from the futecon line. Apparently they were music-lovers, too. An agitated Klavdia Petrovna dashed into the building, dragging along Professor Voinov. ("Oh-oh!" thought Danilov. "We really are being taken seriously.") The stern critic Zabyvalov strolled into the lobby without going near the snack bar. Danilov was rather surprised by the presence of Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky. He should have been playing his violin in the pit tonight. Danilov went over and asked: "Why are you here, Nikolai Borisovich?" Zemsky answered hoarsely: "I called in sick. Lumbago." He did not look Danilov in the eye. He held an object wrapped in a newspaper. He seemed to want to hide it, so that Danilov would not ask about it. Danilov did not ask.

They played Pereslegin's symphony in the first half.

Danilov was nervous, but this time he was calmer, and he saw and remembered everything. His playing and that of the orchestra were well received. They applauded, threw flowers, the orchestra members beat their bows on the stands in approval of Danilov. For five minutes Danilov sat exhausted and worn out in the dressing room, But he had to play in the second half, after the Stravinsky, as well. He got up and went to the lobby for a drink of water.

As he got in line, he regretted leaving his viola backstage. "What's the matter with me?" Danilov practically screamed. He ran back to the dressing room, but the Albani was gone. The open case was there, but the instrument was missing. Danilov raced around the dressing rooms; he dashed out onto the stage. He asked his friends if anyone was playing a joke on him. The Albani was nowhere to be seen.

Finally he went into the men's room of the dressing room and found Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky destroying his viola. Actually the viola was already destroyed, dismembered, partially torn into shreds. Zemsky held a handsaw. No instrument repairman, not Albani himself, could bring it back to life.

Danilov wanted to attack Zemsky. But why? He stopped and said softly, barely finding the strength to speak:

"How could you, Nikolai Borisovich? You're a musician..."

"That's why, because I am a musician," Zemsky said firmly.

Danilov sat in the dressing room, his face in his hands. Zemsky stood nearby demanding that they call the police immediately. The intermission was being extended. Chu-detsky came over and asked Danilov if he wanted to call off the rest of the performance, to which Danilov replied curtly and unexpectedly to himself, "No, now I'll play for sure!" They tried to figure out the best way to do things. Send a car to Danilov's apartment for his spare viola (which would take about forty minutes), or use a viola belonging to someone in the orchestra? They decided on the latter. Danilov nodded and asked to be left alone with Zemsky.

"Why did you do it, Nikolai Borisovich?" Danilov asked. "Were you incensed by my playing?"

"On the contrary," Zemsky said. "You played brilliantly. That's the whole point. But now you'll play even better."

"Then why -- "

"Volodya, call the police, I beg you, and file a complaint."

"I'm not calling anyone," Danilov said warily. "What can the police do now -- "

"I beg you... You don't have to call the police. I've already phoned. Just file a complaint."

"I'm not going to file any complaint..."

"I fall on my knees before you again, then."

"Why did you break it?"

"Don't you remember our conversation? You can believe or not in my works, my silencism, but I do. They can't be appreciated now. Not anytime soon. But who will remember me, who will suddenly take an interest in me a hundred or a hundred and fifty years from now? But now I'll be remembered! You will become a great musician. People will write articles about you, and somewhere someone will mention that some barbarian or jealous competitor destroyed your favorite instrument during the intermission of a concert. This is a good time for you! And for me! Some other future scholar will want to learn who that barbarian was, what had led him to destroy the Albani -- madness, or some higher principle. And someone will come to appreciate Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky for his works."

"Go away, Nikolai Borisovich, I want to be alone."

"No! First sign the complaint for the police!" Zemsky shouted with passion in his eyes.

"The police won't repair the viola," Danilov said.

"No one will be able to do that! I'll pay you for the instrument. You'll buy another one. How can anyone compare even an Albani with the direction that I am giving to music? ... You must demand to file a complaint. So that future archivists come across the document. And so that I do not remain nameless."

"Nikolai Borisovich, let's not talk about this anymore," Danilov said grimly.

Zemsky did fall on his knees before Danilov.

"Don't destroy me, Volodya! Do you want me to reveal the mystery of Misha Korenev to you?"

"Get up, Nikolai Borisovich." Danilov went over to him and tried to lift him, but Nikolai Borisovich was heavy. "Why are you driving me crazy witn this? It has nothing to do with me.

"There is a mystery concerning Korenev. But I can't say whether or not it has anything to do with you or with anyone else."

Nikolai Borisovich pulled a crumpled envelope from his jacket pocket and held it up.

"I got this letter from Korenev a day before his death," Zemsky said. "I didn't open it."

Zemsky handed it to Danilov. Danilov took it unwillingly but immediately offered it back.

"The letter is addressed to you. I don't read other people's mail."

"Open the envelope anyway. I have an idea of what's in it, and I don't think that your knowing the contents will damage either Korenev or myself."

Danilov carefully unglued the envelope and pulled out a sheet of music paper, obviously folded by nervous hands. He unfolded it. It was blank.

"Just as I thought," Zemsky said.

"A blank sheet," Danilov said softly. "Well, that's no great surprise to me, either..."

There was a knock on the dressing room door. "Come in," Danilov said.

Pereslegin asked tactfully: "Vladimir Alekseyevich, if you do not wish to play, just say so; no one will blame you."

Danilov said quietly, looking at the blank farewell sheet of music paper: "No, I'll definitely play now."

"Then your entrance is in twenty minutes."

As he spoke, two policemen came into the dressing room, one with a walkie-talkie. Danilov thought fearfully, "They'll start asking questions...." But the complaint was filled out, and it satisfied Nikolai Borisovich Zemsky.

From the hall came flute trills and string tremolos -- the nightingale had flown into the emperor's garden -- and then came the colorful and marvelous Chinese march. The two nightingales argued, the live one and the mechanical Japanese one. Danilov listened to the Stravinsky distractedly; he was thinking about the death of Misha Korenev. He saw the cemetery in Babushkino, the trampled snow under the birches, the weeping widow and two little girls, a grieving Natasha with roses in her hands. He saw himself. He was now holding the sum total of Misha's life: a blank piece of paper, a retreat into silence, an admission that there was nothing to say or that there was no need to say it. But there was a need, if he had jumped out of the window. He had said something that way, and something important.

The Nightingale ended with a harp glissando and the golden songs of the fisherman. It was Danilov's turn. He took a few minutes to accustom himself to Zakharov's viola; it had a nice sound. Danilov nodded to Pereslegin and Chudetsky and went out. The audience obviously knew about the incident with his Albani, and the silence was incredible.

Danilov announced: "An improvisation. In memory of a silenced musician."

As he announced it, he wondered if Zemsky would have named his composition that. But what difference did a tide make?

Danilov was in a state he himself could not identify: He felt love, and anger, and despair brought on by the destruction of his instrument; he wanted to tell people about the fate of the violinist Korenev and his opposition to it; he thirsted to express his concept of life, love, and music and to reconfirm them. He played. He felt freedom in the expression of his thoughts and feelings as never before. And that unfamiliar instrument became an extension of his voice, his mind, his heart... When Danilov realized that he had said everything he had to say today, he stopped.

There was applause, perhaps simply polite. Danilov stood and contemplated the unthinkable freedom with which he had played.

Had they understood him? Many said: "Unusual music... strange music ... as if we weren't listening to a viola at all. We have to hear some more." Even Pereslegin seemed a bit confused. "But you should go on speaking in your language," he counseled. "Unusual?" Danilov said challengingly. "They'll get used to it."

But he felt such courage only just after the concert. The next morning he awoke depressed. Music -- his own and others' -- revolted him. His so-called improvisation embarrassed him. "The hell with it all!"

That same morning he had an attack. He lay without moving, ready to call for an ambulance. It passed. There were no news reports about earthquakes. Only some news about breaking up student demonstrations in Thailand. So that's how it was. Of course, that's what they had promised Danilov. If you try to perfect yourself, try to be daring in your music; you'll heighten your newly acquired sensitivity. Sensitivity to elemental agitations and oscillations and to human agitations and oscillations. Soon he would break out in a rash from the cry of a hungry child in the Punjab. Or from the moans of a veteran with a piece of shrapnel digging into him. Or from the misfortunes of some artist, like Pereslegin, who was being sabotaged by the futecons. Or from anything else. "I'll put up with it," Danilov thought. "Some artist I'd be if I didn't."

And Danilov probably was right. After all, he was an artist, a musician. How could he exist without fantasy and imagination? And I, who listened to Danilov's tales and recorded several months of his life, consider the imagination to be one of the most wonderful aspects of human nature. So Danilov's fantasies and mine coincide. Naturally, there is no need to believe them. But why not? How far would humanity have gone if it didn't know how to fantasize? And how many edifying volumes would it have missed? The Bremen musicians would not have made mischief in the king's palaces. And Niels would not have flown on wild geese to freezing Lapland. And Major Kovalev's nose would not have had an opportunity to put on a uniform and undertake an attempt to reach Riga in a carriage... Danilov and I like to spin fantasies.

But here's a strange thing.

When Danilov got home from the evening performance, he took his newspaper out of the mailbox, and an official paper from precinct 58 fell out. The paper, signed by Senior Lieutenant Yu. Nesynov, announced that a musical instrument (viola) of the work of the Italian master Mateo Albani, Bolzano, 2693 (confirmed by experts), belonging to citizen Danilov, V.A., had been found. Danilov was invited to the precinct house to identify the instrument.

"It can't be!" Danilov thought.

But he had always believed in his precinct.

He didn't sleep all night, and in the morning he rushed off to see Senior Lieutenant Nesynov.

It took seven minutes on streetcar 9 to reach the precinct house.

------------------------------

NOTES:

Lobio -- a spicy bean salad from Georgia, USSR.

Kazachok -- a folk dance from the Ukraine

Pelmeni -- Siberian dumplings

Arbat -- one of the oldest sections of Moscow, comparable to Paris's Left Bank

Mazeppa -- was an eighteenth-century Ukrainian military leader.

Pioneers -- The Soviet equivalent of the Boy Scouts

MosConcert – The Moscow agency responsible for booking concert artists

Voevoda - Governor of a province in ancient Russia

Content

Vladimir Orlov
Danilov the Violist